Lessons in Love
by rinsled05
Summary: [Victuuri] Viktor is a fashion designer who owns a luxury lingerie store and is in a creative rut. Yuuri is a graduate with a business degree and desperately eager to prove himself. Yuri can't understand how the hell the two fell for each other. (Phichit totally gets it, though.) [Multi-chapter / All characters]
1. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder(?)

_**Author's Notes:**_ _I shouldn't be doing this. I really shouldn't. But I watched Atelier on Netflix and now I can't get this AU out of my head. Updates for this one will likely be sporadic compared to my Hogwarts AU. Enjoy and, as always, please leave a review so I can hear your thoughts!_

* * *

Yuuri draws in a deep breath.

This is it: his first real job interview fresh out of graduate school. Exhaling slowly, he settles his gaze on the logo in front of him, carved out in an elegant, cursive script.

" _Lyublyu_ "

"Love" in Russian: a subtle, elusive emotion that inspires joy, passion, hate, and the occasional madness. Love is a mystery that even the best writers and poets have yet to pin down, much less comprehend.

What Yuuri really doesn't understand is what love has to do with high-fashion lingerie.

It was Yuuko who encouraged him to accept the interview offer with shrieks of fervent enthusiasm. It was Yuuko who gave him an earful about the intricacy of Lyublyu's designs, the care afforded in each and every stitch on Lyublyu's products, the vividness of Lyublyu's colors. It was also Yuuko who begged him with large, watery eyes to _please, please_ , _please give Lyublyu a shot._

"Looking to buy something for your girlfriend?"

Yuuri flinches in surprise, before he turns to see a brunette smiling amiably at him. The man has a jaunty style to his dressing: a jacket draped casually round his shoulders, the top buttons of his charcoal dress shirt popped open to reveal just enough skin.

"No I was just uh, um…" Yuuri realizes, then, how creepy it looks for an adult male to be staring so resolutely at the door of a lingerie store. "I'mhereforaninterview," he blurts out hastily.

"Sorry?" says the man, laughing.

Yuuri flushes. Way to make an impression. "I'm here for an interview," he repeats carefully.

"Ohhh, you're here for the marketing position." The brunette extends a hand. "I'm Leo, a fashion designer at Lyublyu."

Yuuri accepts the offered hand with a firm shake. "I'm Yuuri."

"Nice to meet you, Yuuri. C'mon in, I'll show the way."

Nodding, Yuuri follows after Leo into the store.

Lyublyu is smaller than Yuuri expected. Filled with natural light, mannequins line the sides, adorned with assortments of silky, lacy lingerie pieces. (Yuuri keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead, cheeks burning.) The furniture all appear to be vintage antiques, contributing to the overall feel of the old-fashioned Victorian ages.

"We produce custom-made lingerie, tailor made to each customer's size and unique preferences," Leo explains as he leads Yuuri past the displays. "We're not exactly a booming business, but our regular patrons love our products."

They enter a cozy office space in the back. A petite man seated near the windows lifts an arm to give a wave. Unlike Leo, he is clothed in formal attire, save for the tiny prints of fluffy sheep dotting his tie. "Leo! I thought that might've been you."

"Morning, Guang Hong," Leo says cheerily. "Yuuri, that's Guang Hong, another fashion designer. Guang Hong, Yuuri."

"Hello," says Guang Hong with a shy smile. "Here for the marketing job?"

"Yes," says Yuuri, returning the smile. He is starting to relax, comfortable in the friendly atmosphere.

"Is the boss here," asks Leo. He walks up to the desk across from Guang Hong's to throw his jacket across the top of a chair.

"Yeah but Christophe's in there," Guang Hong says, eyes flickering over to the double doors at the far end of the office. His voice drops to an audible whisper. "It doesn't look good."

Before Yuuri can ask what that meant, the doors fly open.

"Unless you've got something new, Viktor, don't expect a glowing review from me."

The man who walks out is tall and good-looking with eyelashes that seem to extend forever. Something about the sultry way he moves his hips (clad in leather, no less) has Yuuri turning away, feeling abashed.

"I will see you at the trunk show, Chris," a lilting voice says flatly from inside.

Chris – short for Christophe, probably – clicks his tongue and saunters out of the office, without so much as a glance at the other men in the room.

"Is this a bad time?" Yuuri says, his nervousness flooding back tenfold.

"Good luck," Leo whispers, before he shoves Yuuri through the double doors and shuts them after him.

* * *

The man who looks up at his entrance is the most gorgeous person Yuuri has ever seen in his life. Blue-green eyes, shimmering like gems behind silvery strands, highlight a slender nose and high cheekbones. Standing by the window – the sunlight hitting him just so – he is dressed simply: collared navy blue shirt with black skinny jeans. The outfit compliments a lithe body and the color of God-given features perfectly.

Suddenly, Yuuri understands what love has to do with high-fashion lingerie.

"Can I help you?" Viktor asks after a moment.

Yuuri snaps to attention, startled out of his reverie. "Sorry," he says, turning bright red. "I'm here for the uh…. the interview. The marketing interview. I mean, the marketing position. The job opening."

A voice in the back of his mind wonders idly if the ground will do him a favor and just swallow him whole.

Then Viktor smiles and Yuuri feels his knees start to tremble. "Yuuri Katsuki."

"Y-Yes, that's me."

Viktor moves away from the window to circle Yuuri slowly. "What interests you in working at Lyublyu, Yuuri?"

Yuuri swallows, feeling incredibly self-conscious. He stifles the urge to smooth out the wrinkles in his pants. "Your business is very niche, so that keeps the job scope simple enough for a fresh graduate like myself, yet challenging enough to afford new learning opportunities. I also understand that – "

He stops when the other man holds up a hand.

"What do you know about lingerie?" Viktor asks.

"It has to be comfortable but also sexy enough for the wearer to feel good about herself," Yuuri replies.

"Not untrue," says Viktor. He shifts to the front of a large desk where he leans, head tilting to one side. "Yet also a generic answer."

Yuuri flushes at the blunt evaluation, but raises his chin in determination. "I don't know much about fashion," he admits, "But I'm a fast learner and I'm very willing to learn."

"I expect every new graduate to tell me that," Viktor says with a shrug.

"Then hiring me is a risk you'll have to take," Yuuri says firmly.

Viktor stares at Yuuri for a beat, before his features split into a bemused smile. "Well," he says. "The bunny has teeth."

"I also have friends in fashion," Yuuri adds, confidence building at the other man's response. "I'll study hard, catch up with the trends, and learn more about your product."

"Is there anything you do know about my product at this point?"

"I know that it's unique," Yuuri says, desperately recalling Yuuko's gushing. "There's always a special element every season, a surprise, something that the clients never think to expect."

Silence falls.

Arms folding across his chest, Viktor's eyes narrow at him in a penetrating stare. Yuuri fidgets uncomfortably; with every passing second, his nervous sweat is getting worse and soaking up the dress shirt under his blazer. Just when he is about to break the silence with a stupid joke, Viktor finally speaks.

"Take off your glasses."

Yuuri blinks in confusion.

Silently, Viktor mimics the gesture with one hand.

"Oh, um..." Fumbling, Yuuri hurriedly removes his glasses. "Like this?"

Again, wordlessly, Viktor slides a hand through his hair and nods towards Yuuri.

Bewildered, Yuuri obediently copies the move, thrusting a hand through his bangs and sliding the strands up and through his hair.

Instantly, Viktor's eyes light up, lips curving in delight.

Then, without breaking his gaze, he pushes himself off his desk and stalks up to Yuuri with all the grace of a starved panther approaching its prey. Stunned, Yuuri freezes in place as long fingers reach out to stroke at his cheek in a light caress, before gliding down to grasp his chin.

"Your first lesson of the day," Viktor drawls, his lilting accent adding an entirely new dimension of sensuality to his tone. "Beauty is in the eye of those who create it. We represent beauty; we _define_ it." He tilts Yuuri's chin up to brush a feathery kiss tantalizing close to parted lips. "As a representative of Lyublyu, I expect you to bring out your beauty for my brand every day, any day."

Before Yuuri's brain can register what is happening, Viktor has pulled away to walk past Yuuri and open the double doors. "Guang Hong," he calls. "Will you show Yuuri to a desk?"

"Yes, boss."

Yuuri is still clutching onto his glasses when Guang Hong comes in to usher him out.

"Congratulations," says Guang Hong with a soft smile. "You even put him in a good mood despite the whole Christophe thing."

"Not an easy feat," Leo pipes up from his seat. "Love the look without glasses, by the way."

"Thanks," says Yuuri, following Guang Hong to an empty desk next to Leo's. He pulls out the chair and drops onto it, mind whirring.

He has a job.

At a lingerie store.

With a sexy boss who clearly has the potential to open all sorts of doors to sexual harassment lawsuits.

Never mind Yuuko, Phichit is so going to have aneurysms of unadulterated excitement when he hears about this new development.

"Hey guys," Yuuri says after a while. "Where can I get a good batch of hair gel?"

* * *

Next chapter:

"Yuuri's entirely too precious for such hedonic thrills."

Yuri shudders violently. "You just had to pick someone with my name, didn't you?"

"I aim only to please," Viktor says cheerfully.

In which Yuri just wants to get off Viktor's rollercoaster of hell.


	2. People are filthy (except maybe Mila)

_**Author's Notes:** I thoroughly enjoyed delving into Yuri's mind for this AU far more than I thought I would, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I did as well! Chapters may not necessarily be in chronological order. As always, reviews/comments will be greatly appreciated. :3_

* * *

Yuri doesn't like this. Yuri doesn't like this one bit.

His half-brother only ever asks him out for coffee on a Wednesday when he's in some kind of weird mood. The last time they had coffee, the man had gravely informed him that he was out of ideas. Viktor Nikiforov: out of ideas? Unimaginable. He even talked about asking Yakov for advice on promoting his brand. The mere memory of Viktor thinking to consult Yakov makes Yuri's skin crawl.

Now Viktor sits across from him, Dior sunglasses over his eyes, sipping his expresso with that stupid look on his face. It's the same look Georgi has when he rambles on about his latest shoe designs and the feet he can't wait to try them on. (Georgi is _disgusting_.)

"I've hired a marketing executive," Viktor finally says, setting the cup down on its saucer.

Yuri chokes on his latte. "You actually took Yakov's advice!?"

Viktor raises an eyebrow. " _Professor_ Yakov is a reputable teacher at our school."

"Yeah of fashion _history_ ," Yuri snorts, swiping a napkin over his mouth.

"An important subject," Viktor chides.

"Dull as dirt," Yuri corrects. "So you hired a marketing executive."

Viktor nods. "So I did." There's that stupid look again. "His name is Yuuri."

Yuri performs his second spit-take while his idiotic half-brother lets out a rich laugh. "Are you trying to kill me?" Yuri yells, vehemently yanking out three, four napkins from the tiny dispenser. "You're mooning over some guy with _my name_? That's gross on so many levels!"

"You flatter yourself," Viktor says, eyes gleaming with mirth behind his stupid branded shades. "Yuuri is Japanese and nothing at all like you."

"Ugh, he's Asian?" Yuri says, grimacing. "All that silk and lace has finally done it. You've gone down the route of fetishization like that psychotic foot maniac."

"Georgi is a world-class shoe designer for a reason," Viktor chuckles. "No, Yura, there's something about this one. So wide-eyed and innocent, beautiful of course, but with just the right hint of feistiness he might not even be aware of."

"So a closet pervert," Yuri deadpans.

Viktor lifts the cup to his lips, sighing dramatically. "Why do I bother with you, dear brother?"

"You're the one who dragged me away from my senior thesis."

"You're always welcome to leave if you so choose."

The brothers lock stares, before Yuri drops back against his seat and spreads his legs almost defiantly. "Can pretty boy actually help with your business?" he says, scowling. "Because if a good fuck is all you want, you could've easily hired some desperate model for less money."

"How crude," Viktor says, clicking his tongue in disapproval. "Mother should wash your mouth with soap."

"Answer the question."

"He will learn, I'm certain," says Viktor with the sickening smile of a man with a new fetish. (Bastard can deny it all he wants; he's in _deep_.) "He seems like a very determined young man. As far as my intent to ah, 'fuck' him," he continues, treading on the word delicately, "Yuuri's entirely too precious for such hedonic thrills."

Yuri shudders violently. "You just _had_ to pick someone with my name, didn't you?"

"I aim only to please," Viktor says cheerfully. "Anyway, you'll have a chance to meet him for yourself when you start interning at Lyublyu in a few months."

Yuri really, really doesn't like this.

* * *

"Sounds like he found a muse of sorts. That's a good thing, isn't it?"

Draped across the couch, Yuri rolls his eyes. "Muse? Like what, this guy's gonna magically inspire my brother to come up with new designs?"

"Infatuation is a great source of inspiration," says Mila with a shrug. Hands on her hips, the redhead is standing in the middle of the living room, almost naked, stripped down to just her underwear. She frowns at the pile of clothes stacked up on the coffee table, drumming her fingers lightly. "Could you pass me that blouse over there, the salmon pink one?"

Reaching over, Yuri grabs a blouse from the pile and tosses it over to Mila. "I swear to god, if that idiot puts lotus or cranes or some kind of Oriental shit on those bras, I'm going to kick him in the _head_."

Mila yanks the blouse over her head with a swift motion. "It'd be new though," she says with a grin. "Sara would be the first to try them on, too."

"Don't even mention that sick old hag," Yuri groans, falling back to pull a cushion over his face. "Who the hell watches Asian porn in the living room of someone else's apartment? _Traumatized for life_."

"Get over it, Yura, we were curious and very, very drunk." Mila moves to stand in front of the couch and holds her arms out. "What do you think? Could go with the cream-colored shorts?"

Yuri sits up halfway and eyes her critically. "Maybe," he says after a minute. "You mean the denim cream with the frayed edges right? At the seams?"

"Yeah, that one."

"Sure, go with that."

"You're a lifesaver," Mila says, bending over to rummage through the clothes.

Yuri flushes, but covers his embarrassment with a loud snort. Lots of people in his life are morons – half-brother included – but his roommate Mila isn't too bad. He's kind of grateful when she suggests they share an apartment together after her graduation, mostly because that takes him away from the idiots boozing and sexing up the school dormitories and because New York City apartments are way too unaffordable for a student like himself. There's also the tiny additional incentive that, well. Mila isn't too bad.

Not that he'd ever tell her that.

"Where's your audition at?" he asks as Mila shimmies into her shorts.

"J. Crew," Mila replies. "Probably for their summer catalog, so, you know." She cocks her hips to one side and gestures at her bare legs with a wink. "Figured I'd give them what they're looking for."

Yuri stares at her in confusion. "What, your legs? They're looking for models with legs? What the hell kind of criteria is that?"

Mila drops her arms and sighs deeply. "Never mind, Yura."

* * *

Yuri likes fabrics: the soft lining of velvet pieces, the shimmering gradients of satin and silk, the warmth and comfort of well-made cotton. It's the reason why his thesis is on fabrics, specifically on the role of fashion trends in the evolution of textile manufacturing and design. It gives him an excuse to collect patches of assorted fabrics, to run his hands on each of them and marvel at the touch.

Mila thinks he turns to textiles because they're not complicated or stupid or make him feel _angry_ all the damn time.

Mila isn't wrong.

He's doing his legwork, skimming through a book on early eighteenth century fashion under the light of his desk lamp – dull as dirt, seriously – when his phone buzzes and lights up his darkened room.

Rubbing at his eyes tiredly, he picks up the phone for a quick glance.

It's a sketch of a single blossoming chrysanthemum, artfully shaded in soft golden-yellow. Below, lightly scrawled in purple print, reads: "Rejuvenation".

The phone buzzes again in his hand.

"Can't wait for you to meet him (*ω*)," says the new message.

Yuri throws his phone against the wall.

* * *

"Hi, I'm Yuuri –"

"Oh _fuck_ no!"

"Excuse me?"

Yuri knows Viktor's penchant for hiring good-looking men. Good for business, the pervert likes to say. Customers prefer their measurements taken by something beautiful, he says.

So Yuri gets it when he first meets the Mexican-American guy: friendly, sociable, guy-next-door type. He gets it when he sees the Chinese guy: quiet, bit quirky, but total bait for the maternal instinct of older patrons. He also expects, especially from the way Viktor's been acting Georgi-level crazy for the past few months, for the new guy to fill in the role of some other archetype that's entrenched in women's deepest (filthy) desires.

But the man who just happens to share his name – because someone up there clearly hates him – the man who somehow manages to pull Viktor Nikiforov out of a creative black hole; _inspired_ Viktor to produce stupid fetishized designs (but new, fine, they're _new_ ) –

This man looks like he walked right out of an Asian pornography video.

Slicked hair, big eyes, plus a lean frame in _tight_ black slacks and a _too-damn-low_ v-neck dress shirt?

"Too precious for hedonic thrills", my ass.

Yuri can't put a name to it, but this whole affair is, plain and simple, _really_ _disturbing_. How could Viktor do this to him? He's an impressionable young adult, and now he has to work in his own half-brother's real-life version of some workplace sex fantasy, that oh by the way, sells women's underwear _._

Mentally, Yuri makes a note to go back and yell at Mila some more for traumatizing him for life.

"Do forgive my brother, Yuuri," says the _really_ _disturbing_ asshole. "He's simply stunned by the extent of your raw beauty."

Good lord, did the walking wet dream just blush?

"You are a disgusting human being," Yuri announces.

"Um, sorry," says Yuuri.

"Not you," Yuri snaps.

"Well if you're that stunned by our Yuuri here," booms a loud voice that somehow manages to sound ten times more obnoxious than his half-brother, "Then you might just get a heart attack feasting your eyes on me, the great JJ!"

Yuri decides then: this internship is going to be a fresh new hell.

* * *

 **Next chapter:**

The man steps forward and crashes straight into him.

"Whoa," the man laughs, grabbing Yuuri by the shoulders. "Sorry, didn't see you there!"

"No, that's fine." Righting himself, Yuuri looks up into bright blue eyes and a strong, masculine jawline. The man is tall, clad in a navy blue suit with a fedora hat seated at a jaunty angle on his head.

What is it about lingerie that seems to attract handsome well-dressed men?

 _In which Yuuri gets used to work at Lyublyu and meets new people._


	3. Fashion is hard work

_**Author's Notes:** Hope everyone's 2017 is starting out well! Bit of a longer chapter to introduce the setting a little more, and also a few more characters. :) Please enjoy and, as always, reviews/feedback will be greatly appreciated._

* * *

Nervously, Yuuri runs a hand through his hair, eyes fixed on the "Lyublyu" logo in front of him.

It takes him two hours and a very impatient roommate kicking in the bathroom door to help him with the styling so he'd _get the hell out_ , but he makes it just in time for his first official day at Lyublyu.

He blinks a few times, still adjusting to the new contact lenses. Then, inhaling deeply, he stretches out his hand to grasp the bronze doorknob –

" –I'll be back next week," says a man, pulling the door open.

Startled, Yuuri doesn't react fast enough and the other man's woody floral cologne fills Yuuri's senses as the man steps forward and crashes straight into him.

"Whoa," the man laughs, grabbing Yuuri by the shoulders. "Sorry, didn't see you there!"

"No, that's fine." Righting himself, Yuuri looks up into bright blue eyes and a strong, masculine jawline. The man is tall, clad in a navy blue suit with a fedora hat seated at a jaunty angle on his head.

What is it about lingerie that seems to attract handsome well-dressed men?

"Glad to hear it. I'd hate to chase away a male patron of Lyublyu's." The man flashes a roguish grin. "They're so very rare, after all."

It takes Yuuri three seconds to digest the man's words then another second to flush several shades of red. "I'm not - I don't _buy_ lingerie – "

"Well then," says the man, his smile stretching even wider across his face. Sliding out a business card from inside his jacket pocket, he takes Yuuri's hand and presses the card into his palm. "If it's male underwear you want, you might want to try this instead."

Yuuri glances down at the card. "JJ Style?" he reads the large, capitalized words emblazoned in gold across the top.

The man gives Yuuri a wink before he strides past to leave, earthy scent wafting after him.

Shaking his head, Yuuri pockets the card and finally opens the door to enter the store.

In the back office, Leo and Viktor seem to be deep in discussion at the double doors, Leo looking chic in a patterned vest and Viktor, well, Viktor's as gorgeous as Yuuri remembers him – maybe even more – in a lilac-colored shirt and dark grey pants. Both of them have furrowed eyebrows, and Viktor has his arms crossed, a finger stroking thoughtfully on his chin.

At his seat, Guang Hong, in a white dress shirt with ruffles, waves a silent hello. "You look nice," he says as Yuuri takes his seat at his desk.

"Thanks, so do you," Yuuri fingers at his tie self-consciously. He glances over at Leo and Viktor. "Did something happen?"

"Jean-Jacques came by again," Guang Hong responds in a low voice. "He's been dropping in every Monday for the past few weeks to convince the boss about some collaboration idea. Leo's all for it but not the boss."

"Who's Jean-Jacques?"

Guang Hong's mouth drops open in a small 'o' of surprise. "You don't know Jean-Jacques?"

Yuuri smiles sheepishly. "Sorry, I'm new to the fashion world."

"That's okay, you'll learn," the small boy says kindly. "Jean-Jacques Leroy is the leading designer and owner of JJ Style, a local brand for male fashion. He's been doing so well that he recently expanded his business outside of Manhattan. Leo thinks a collaboration would help to promote Lyublyu, but the boss thinks the casualness of JJ Style isn't compatible with our high-fashion products." He leans forward then, dropping his volume so low that Yuuri has to lean closer in kind. "Also, rumor has it that the expansion happened too quickly and too soon, so Jean-Jacque's actually hemorrhaging money right now."

Yuuri recalls the handsome, roguish features, the woody cologne scent, and the smooth way the man had given his card. He's inclined to believe the rumor; Jean-Jacques is clearly a man brimming with a little too much confidence.

"Is that why he wants a collaboration?" Yuuri asks quietly. "So he can get in some good marketing and save his business?"

"That's certainly what I think."

Guang Hong straightens up with a guilty expression, while Yuuri swivels round in his seat so quickly he nearly topples off from the momentum.

Standing before him is Viktor, gazing down at him with a smile. Unlike Jean-Jacques, Viktor's cologne has a spicy aromatic fragrance, with a hint of musk and lime. Idly, Yuuri wonders why he hadn't noticed it the first time. Maybe the shock to his brain from Viktor's kiss had stopped the processing of his five senses.

"Looking fine today, Yuuri," Leo says brightly, coming up from behind Viktor to sit at his desk.

"Thanks," Yuuri mumbles, dropping his eyes to the ground in embarrassment. He's aware of Viktor's eyes traveling slowly down the length of his body and he feels very much like an awkward schoolgirl shifting under the scrutiny of her first crush.

"I agree with Leo," Viktor says, finally. "But for the suit."

Yuuri's head snaps up then, a frown crossing his face. "This suit is brand new, I just bought it for graduation."

Bending over, Viktor snags his fingers through the knot of Yuuri's tie and yanks him close, nose-to-nose. The cologne feels almost overpowering now as warm breath ghosts over Yuuri's lips. "Then it has served its purpose," the Russian says softly.

Releasing the tie, Viktor turns and walks back to his office with the air of an employer who hasn't just come extremely close to kissing a subordinate.

Again.

Stunned, Yuuri can only watch the other man leave, gaping.

"Hey boss," Leo says, his voice trembling in a way that betray his efforts to hold back laughter. "Want us to show him the ropes around here?"

"Yes, thank you, Leo."

"Wait what's wrong with my suit," Yuuri finally manages to ask, seconds after Viktor has disappeared into his office and shut the double doors.

"I don't think he's ever done that with me," Guang Hong remarks.

"The boss has very specific tastes," Leo snickers. "Let's start with some online shopping, shall we?"

"Yes, let's," says Yuuri, feeling his face burn at Leo's response. He decides it wiser not to ask.

* * *

Yuuri learns a great deal about Lyublyu over the next few weeks.

Everything at Lyublyu starts with the annual trunk show held every April in time with spring and the blooming of cherry blossoms. With the trunk show come the return of regular patrons and an influx of new customers, who will then visit Lyublyu's store to make their selections and customizations. Viktor personally designs every piece, with sale pieces handcrafted by Leo and Guang Hong, following Viktor's precise instruction sheets and adapting to each customer's requests.

In addition to manufacturing, Leo also deals with customers, because Viktor spends most of his time behind the double doors experimenting with new creations and Guang Hong is still very shy about taking measurements against bare female skin.

"Customers can also be a little forward," Leo adds, grinning, while Guang Hong blushes.

Yuuri quickly discovers that customers are not simply forward, they can also be downright aggressive. Shadowing Leo for a measurement appointment with a patron, he is amazed by how the Mexican-American smoothly dodges the customer's advances.

"Like what you see, honey?" the blond lady purrs as Leo slips a measuring tape round her heaving chest.

Leo laughs good-naturedly. "Do breathe normally for me, Ms. Carter, so I can take an accurate measurement."

Pouting, the customer exhales as requested. "I've told you to call me Bailey." She turns to smile brightly at Yuuri who's in the corner of the changing room, trying hard to blend into the velvet curtains. "What was your name again, sweetheart?"

"Y-Yuuri," Yuuri responds, keeping his eyes permanently glued to the wall behind the customer.

"Adorable," Ms. Carter concludes. "Will Yuuri be taking my measurements next time?"

"When he's ready perhaps," Leo says. He stretches the measuring tape. "I'll have to take your waist and hips now, Ms. Carter."

"My favorite part," she says throatily as the man sinks down on one knee in front of her. "A handsome man going down on me."

It takes all of Yuuri's energy not to combust in sheer mortification at the connotation.

Besides a thorough exposure to Lyublyu's processes, he also has a whole new wardrobe, courtesy of Leo and Guang Hong's earnest assistance. Each morning, he mixes and matches different articles of clothing by their recommendations. He knows it's working: Yuuko actually squeals at the sight of him when they meet for lunch, and even his roommate, who typically prefers older gentlemen, offers him a compliment.

Most importantly, he notices Viktor, who steps out of his office every Monday to deflect Jean-Jacque's weekly implorations, consistently giving him an appreciative side-eye whenever he walks past them to the bathroom.

He hopes no one realizes that he goes to the bathroom at the exact same time every Monday.

* * *

It is into Yuuri's second month at Lyublyu when Viktor tells Leo to let Yuuri take over his duty of product distributions.

"Product distributions?" Yuuri says curiously.

Leo nods. "Once a month, we hand-deliver products to our business partners for sale at their stores. They're mostly local indie boutiques that sell couture pieces, and we make every delivery personal to maintain a strong relationship with them."

"I made the rounds when I first joined too," Guang Hong points out. "So they'd know who the new designer was."

"Indeed," Viktor agrees with a smile. "It's about time they met our beautiful new marketing executive."

Internally, Yuuri burbles like a schoolgirl at the tinge of pride in Viktor's voice.

Armed with bags of Lyublyu lingerie, his first stop is a designer boutique store on Lexington Avenue. Today, he's adorned with a brown leather jacket over a white silk shirt. The collar of his jacket is carefully flipped up as Leo suggested, apparently because that adds a layer of chic to his overall look. Even with Viktor's vote of confidence, he's nervous; he will be officially representing Lyublyu's beauty to the outside world through these meetings after all.

Muttering to himself – "You can do this, you can do this" – Yuuri pushes open the glass doors of his first stop with an elbow, sliding on a customer-friendly smile on his face.

"Welcome to The Hanger," greets a lady standing to the side. Of average height, her features are far from average. Combined with olive skin and straight long tresses, her stiletto heels, and green chiffon one-piece jumpsuit form a sophisticated look that speaks volumes of the store's products.

"Hello," says Yuuri, lifting the bags. "I'm Yuuri, I'm new at Lyublyu –"

"Lyublyu?" the lady gasps.

The illusion of elegance shatters as soon as the lady scrambles to grasp and pump Yuuri's hand up and down, eyes sparkling with delight. "Hello Yuuri, I'm Sara and a huge fan of Lyublyu! In fact, I own most of your products."

Overwhelmed, Yuuri can only nod politely. "Thank you for your patronage, Ms. Sara."

"Please, just Sara," says Sara, beaming. "Are you a designer as well?"

"No, I'm the marketing executive."

"Interesting! Lyublyu's never had a marketing executive before." Sara pauses to peer closely at Yuuri, who's keenly conscious that she's still holding his hand. "Have you considered modeling?" she asks abruptly. "You and Seung-gil would make a perfect collaboration!"

"Um, who?" says Yuuri.

Sara's grip on him tightens. "You don't know Lee Seung-gil? He's only the number one male model in haute couture fashion!"

"Ugh," grunts a man in a trench coat, lurking behind a display of scarves. Yuuri notices him for the first time since he entered the store; he looks almost identical as Sara if the lady's amiable features were replaced with an angry grimace.

"I told you, Mickey, you're not to interfere with my customer interactions if you insist on staying in here," Sara berates. Looking pained, the man called Mickey obediently fades back into the shadows – or rather, stands awkwardly near a rack of coats.

As if nothing happened, Sara turns back to Yuuri with a megawatt smile. "Come in, come in, I'll set aside your products for display and show you who Seung-gil is!" she chirps, tugging Yuuri further into the store before he can inject a single word.

For the next twenty minutes, Yuuri is treated to pages and pages of editorial spreads depicting a stoic-looking Asian man with broad shoulders and a small waist. In some spreads, the model is clad in nothing but underwear, revealing chiseled abdominal muscles. ("These are my favorite," Sara giggles, ignoring the sad whine coming from the coat rack.)

When the impromptu fashion show finally comes to an end, Yuuri receives a name card from Sara – accompanied by a murderous glare from the Mickey guy – as she ardently reminds him that her boutique may need a model for the occasional magazine ad.

"Come visit anytime," Sara says, waving him goodbye at the entrance.

Exhausted, Yuuri looks down at the bags in his hands. Hopefully the other stops aren't quite as enthusiastic.

* * *

"JJ's here to grace your Monday, my dashing worker bees," Jean-Jacques proclaims.

Yuuri looks up from his perusal of the account books. Leo is in the front, servicing a customer, while Guang Hong's in the storage room sorting through a delivery of new ornaments.

That leaves him to deal with Jean-Jacques.

As Leo advised, the sooner he sends the flashy designer to Viktor, the faster he'll be out of the office.

"Have a seat, Mr. Leroy," Yuuri says, gesturing to an empty chair as he rises from his own. "I'll let Viktor know you're here."

"Oh that's not necessary," says the other man, handsome features splitting into a smirk. His suit is maroon in color this time, fedora hat of a similar shade. "Today, I'm actually here to see _you_."

Yuuri stares at him, perplexed. "Me?"

"You _are_ Lyublyu's marketing executive, are you not?"

"Well, yes…"

"Then it's far more pertinent for me to pitch my idea to you, don't you think?"

"But," Yuuri shoots a glance at the closed double doors, "Viktor's obviously not keen."

"Yes," says Jean-Jacques, shoving his hands in his pants pockets, "But he'll listen to you."

"What makes you think he'll listen to me?"

Jean-Jacque's smirk widens ever so slightly. He leans forward into Yuuri's space, leading Yuuri to rear back with some trepidation. "I have eyes," the other man croons, unfazed by Yuuri's reaction. "And I know Viktor's love for beautiful things."

Yuuri lets out a nervous laugh. "Maybe you should talk to Leo then, he even supports your idea from what I know."

Jean-Jacque guffaws. "You're too humble, my pretty friend!" Straightening, he spreads his arms, cocking his head to one side. "Look, just listen to me once, I promise. I'm happy to buy you lunch for your time."

Yuuri frowns. He has the faint sense that he's being lead into some sort of trap, but the other man has a point: he _was_ hired to promote the brand and he hasn't done very much marketing at all since he started here.

Besides, he can always pretend to listen, reject the idea, and send the man back to Viktor.

"All right," Yuuri concedes, before adding quickly, "Only the one time, though."

Jean-Jacques tips his hat at Yuuri. "You won't regret it."

* * *

Next chapter:

"Well," Phichit says, clapping his hands together gleefully. "Clearly we need to get Yuuri drunk, effective immediately."

"I represent Lyublyu now, so – "

"And I'm your best friend whose return you should be celebrating," Phichit counters with ease.

"Oh fine," Yuuri chuckles, "Just one drink."

 _... in which Phichit returns and meddles (just a little)._


	4. Alcohol is very bad for you

_**Author's Notes:**_ _Short drabble-ish chapter to move things along and for an introduction to one of my favourite YOI coaches. :) Enjoy, and as always, I very much appreciate all your favorites and reviews. Thank you so much._

* * *

Dragging a large suitcase behind him, Phichit nearly trips on his mad dash through the exit doors. "Yuuri~!" he sing-songs, throwing his arms round his best friend. "You came!"

Yuuri laughs as he returns the hug with equal enthusiasm. "How could I not welcome my best friend back from Hollywood land?"

"It's really not that big a deal," Phichit snorts, pulling back. "Movie stars aren't the friendliest bunch, especially not to us costume people."

Yuuri takes Phichit's suitcase and starts towards the escalators. "What about Lilia? You were so excited to shadow her."

Falling in step, Phichit wrinkles his nose. His one-year internship as an assistant under the world-renowned costume designer Lilia Baranovskaya was both a dream come true and, with equal measure, the most painful memory of his life. He couldn't recall a time when he wasn't being yelled at, harshly criticized, and generally submitted to some form of verbal and emotional abuse, all while gaining a lifetime's worth of experience in the field.

Some people call it "a steep learning curve"; Phichit prefers to compare it to a climb up Everest without an oxygen tank.

"She's a genius at costume design but mean as a bulldog," he waves his hand dismissively, "But enough about me. Tell me about Lyublyu and _Vik-tor_."

"Must you emphasize his name like that?" Yuuri sighs.

"When a man is able to change my straight-laced best friend into _this,_ " Phichit gestures at Yuuri's outfit: faded skinny jeans, topped with a marine dress shirt, charcoal grey vest and a scarf tied trendily round his neck, "It calls for strong emphasis. How long have I been telling you to wear contacts? Yet it took Viktor, what, two days?"

"I represent Lyublyu now," Yuuri protests weakly. "This is all for work!"

"Right," Phichit says, eyebrows waggling. " _Work_."

He barely dodges Yuuri's swat at his head.

* * *

L'ubriaco is exactly as Phichit remembers. Hidden above a 24-hour convenience store, the bar is small and intimate, the perfect spot for long conversations with a good friend. It's a lucky find; Yuuri, in one of his drunken stupors, had discovered the staircase behind a closed door and clambered up the steps before Phichit could stop him. The Italian bar owner, Celestino, not only welcomed them, but also offered Yuuri glasses of water disguised as "L'ubriaco specialty shots". Since then, for the rest of their college years, they created many fond memories in that bar, chatting away until the wee hours of the morning.

"Ciao Ciao," Phichit greets cheerily. "It's been too long!"

The owner looks up from polishing the counter, a wide smile crossing his face. "Well if it isn't our famous costume designer. Back for good?"

"Back, jobless, and blissfully enjoying the taste of freedom," Phichit declares, dropping down onto a barstool. "How've you been?"

"No change, no change," Celestino folds the cleaning cloth neatly into fours. He turns his smile to Yuuri as the Japanese man slides inconspicuously onto the barstool next to Phichit. "I see that's not the case for you, Yuuri! You're all dressed up now."

Yuuri flushes. "Sorry I haven't been visiting as much," he says, ducking his head in embarrassment, "It didn't feel right to come by and not order any alcohol."

"Well," Phichit says, clapping his hands together gleefully. "Clearly we need to get Yuuri drunk, effective immediately."

"I represent Lyublyu now, so – "

"And I'm your best friend whose return you should be celebrating," Phichit counters with ease.

"Oh fine," Yuuri chuckles, "Just one drink."

Behind the counter, Celestino shoots Phichit a sideways glance, shaking his head.

* * *

 **yuri-k:** PHICHIT HALP

 **yuri-k:** Please tell me I didn't drunk dial Viktor last night

 **phichit+chu:** OK you didn't drunk dial Viktor last night

 **yuri-k:** PHICHIT

 **phichit+chu:** What I'm repeating what you told me to say

 **yuri-k:** o god

 **phichit+chu:** you didn't say anything you'd regret!

 **phichit+chu:** Except maybe when you drunk-dialed Jean-Jacques

Within seconds, Phichit's phone goes off to the theme song of "Shall We Skate".

Coughing back his sniggers, the Thai boy swipes right on the screen and rests his phone on his ear. "Morning, Yuuri~!"

"Phichit," his best friend all but shrieks into the receiver, " _What did I say_?"

"To who, Viktor or Jean-Jacques?"

"Both!"

"Very different things, but I'd say you gave both men a very lovely night."

There's a prolonged strangled noise on the other end while Phichit waits patiently. "I need details," Yuuri eventually chokes out.

"What kind of details?"

"Phichit. My head hurts, my sheets reek of alcohol, and _I need to know what I said last night_."

Phichit swallows back another laugh; he knows from Yuuri's tone that his best friend is close to losing his otherwise elusive temper. "Do you at least remember what we talked about at Ciao Ciao's bar?"

"Barely," groans Yuuri.

"You asked me for advice on the collaboration Jean-Jacques proposed."

"I, I did?"

"You also said Lyublyu's finances weren't looking so good; something about the company just breaking even."

A beat, then, tentatively, "I said all that…?"

"That's not all," Phichit says cheerfully. "See, Lyublyu's couture lingerie are getting a little too niche. Mass production is the best option for profit in this day and age and Jean-Jacques is the expert on that. If it weren't for the cocky overexpansion of JJ Style, he'd be raking in big bucks right now."

"But Lyublyu is – "

"Special, I get it. Nikiforov designs are prized for their uniqueness and their prices reflect as much. What I suggested to you was the creation of a second line: casual underwear for the masses but with the exclusive style of Lyublyu. And you agreed that you needed Jean-Jacques for that."

For several minutes, there was nothing but silence on the line.

"Yuuri?" Phichit probes gently.

"Viktor's going to kill me," a quiet voice finally mutters.

"Not if he checks his voice messages first."

"Phichit – "

"All right, all right," Phichit snickers. "First thing you said was…"

* * *

"Where's Yuuri?"

Leo raises his head from Ms. Carter's bra design to see Viktor looking down at him with an impassive expression. "He called in to say he'd be late this morning."

"Unsurprising," Viktor murmurs under his breath. "Tell him to see me the _second_ he's in."

"Sure thing, boss."

As Viktor sweeps into his office, Guang Hong leans across the desks. "I've never seen Viktor so… harried."

Leo grins. "Well I've never heard Yuuri so hungover."

Guang Hong lifts a hand to his lips. "You don't think…?"

Stretching out a lace piece with a snap, Leo winks at the smaller boy. "We are so going to grill our favorite marketing executive when he comes in."

* * *

 _Next chapter:_

He needs the money; with marriage on the way and Isabella absolutely eager for children this very minute, there just isn't enough time. The last thing he wants is to worry his darling fiancée about silly little business things, things that he should work out as the man of his new family.


	5. Love is a choice not a feeling

_**Author's Notes:**_ _I've always thought there was more to JJ and this is my attempt at digging a little deeper into his mind. Let me know your thoughts and, as always, thank you so much for reading/following/commenting. 3_

 _[UPDATE] Chapter has been edited to include another scene that hopefully makes things clearer!_

* * *

Jean-Jacques considers himself a self-made man.

He is fortunate and extremely grateful to have the support of his loving parents, friends, and fiancée, but it is through his own effort that he clawed his way to the top. His teachers at fashion school had scoffed at his underwear designs, deeming them far too banal, too _common_ for their supposedly superior couture.

Well, with branches of JJ Style across the five boroughs, who's laughing now?

Of course, there are all those rumors about his impending bankruptcy. Envy: one of the seven deadly sins; it's only natural that mortals would fall prey to it.

On the other hand, Jean-Jacques is also a realist. His bank account is indeed starting to run a little dry and it would be silly for him to deny it. (Isabella would never let him forget it, either.)

So he swallows his pride and resorts to persuading - not begging, no, a Leroy _never_ begs –the great Nikiforov for his help. It's the one name he remembers being uttered with absolute reverence throughout the hallways and staffroom in his school before he left to start his own business. Nikiforov, Nikiforov, Nikiforov. And so, week after week, he stops by Lyublyu, hoping, constantly hoping.

"No," Viktor says, again and again.

Sometimes, the cold bastard doesn't even look up from his sewing machine.

"As I've said, our brands are far too different."

"Why, because yours doesn't cater to us common folks?"

The machine grinds to a halt. "Careful now." Blue eyes, shading green under the lights, peer over branded spectacles. "One might mistake your tone for envy."

Jean-Jacques smiles, all teeth. "Surely only mortals fall to sin."

"The devil was a fallen angel, Mr. Leroy." The machine starts up again in earnest. "I'll see you next week."

The first time Jean-Jacques runs, literally, into Yuuri, he thinks nothing of the smaller man. He's timid, meek, and far too gullible for business. Even the suit he had on was a walking fashion disaster. It is only with each subsequent visit, watching the otherwise icy Nikiforov follow Yuuri's every move in the office, that it dawns on him: Yuuri is his way in.

When Japanese man not only agrees to meeting with him but also leaves a drunken verbal contract on his phone in the middle of the night, Jean-Jacques is ecstatic. It takes him several days to convince Isabella that the slurred call is not from a woman – " _Now_ you tell me you're bisexual?" Isabella gasped – and another few more that it is merely a business associate. But the effort is more than worth it – if done right, collaboration with Lyublyu should do wonders for his finances.

Viktor is displeased, naturally, but he agrees to a second line for Lyublyu, "LB": a commercial line for the masses, separate from the exclusive Nikiforov designs. He assigns Leo as main designer, so it is with Leo that Jean-Jacques meets as part of the creative process.

Jean-Jacques appreciates Leo. The Mexican-American is calm, patient, and most importantly, very agreeable to most of his proposals.

Over the next few weeks, he enjoys their meetings at Lyublyu. It turns even more amusing when a spitfire by the name of Yuri joins the Lyublyu team; there is never a dull moment in the office thanks to the angry little thing. Yuri reminds him of Isabella's cats: adorable in their perpetual grouchiness.

* * *

Then, suddenly, Cao Bin decides to make reappearance.

The Chinese businessman is an enigma to Jean-Jacques, and Jean-Jacques doesn't trust anything he doesn't understand. He showed up once before, offering a contract to subsume JJ Style into the department store where he worked. Jean-Jacques had refused: he didn't want JJ Style associated with a large corporate brand; JJ Style is his and it is his name that should be in the lights.

"How true are the rumors, JJ?"

"Only my closest friends call me JJ," Jean-Jacques says, sliding into the grimy diner booth. "What do you want, Cao Bin?"

"My offer stands," Cao Bin says, looking very much like a shark. He takes in a breath of his cigarette, exhaling the noxious smoke into the air.

"Is that all?" Jean-Jacques waves the smoke away. "In that case, my answer also stands." Tipping his hat, he rises to his feet. "Enjoy your coffee – "

"I hear you're working with Viktor now."

Jean-Jacque stops. "On a first name basis, are you?" he says, raising an eyebrow.

"Viktor might disagree, but there's always more than one way to look at something." Cao Bin pulls out a document from his briefcase and slides it across the table. "Like this, for example."

Rolling his eyes, Jean-Jacques picks up the sheet. "Look, I'm not interested in…" he trails off as he scans the figures cited on the paper, eyes growing larger by the second.

"With Lyublyu coming off its pedestal to join us on the ground, my boss is very excited about the idea of a Lyublyu x JJ Style collaboration. He wants nothing more than to have you guys in his stores."

Jean-Jacques swallows, sinking back down onto the booth seat. "This is… a lot of zeros…"

Cao Bin's lips curl. " _Very_ excited."

"This is the annual salary?"

"Monthly," Cao Bin corrects and Jean-Jacques's throat goes dry.

"And you're making the same offer to Lyublyu?"

"Well," says Cao Bin cheerfully, "Only if Lyublyu's interested."

Lyublyu, as Jean-Jacques is unsurprised to learn, is far from interested. So much for agreeable.

"It won't belong to us anymore," Leo argues. "You're a designer too, surely you know where I'm coming from."

"Look what they're offering us," Jean-Jacques responds, pushing the contract closer to the other man. "We shouldn't turn our nose up at this amount, not when success is an uncertainty on our own. A fixed salary, Leo! Besides, Cao Bin promised to showcase our names. Think about it: you'll be your own brand, away from Lyublyu and Nikiforov's designs. Isn't that the dream?"

"But 'LB' _is_ a Lyublyu brand," Leo says, shaking his head. "Sorry," he shoves the contract back, "Tell that big shot marketing dude we're not interested."

When Jean-Jacques says as much to Cao Bin over the phone, the Chinese man snorts. "Yeah, sure, big surprise," he says, and JJ can almost smell the cigarette fumes through the receiver. "More importantly, are _you_ interested?"

"Doesn't your boss want a collaboration? Without Lyublyu..."

"JJ, seriously, work with me here. My boss wants a collaboration, yes, but he doesn't need the actual designers. Would be nice to have at least one of the original designers on board for press releases and all that, but otherwise - "

"Explain yourself so you'll make some damn _sense,"_ Jean-Jacques cuts in sharply. "And _don't_ call me JJ."

"Fine, _Jean-Jacques_." Cao Bin releases an explosive sigh on the other end. "You said you've been working closely with this Leo guy, correct?"

"Yes."

"Exchanged thoughts? Ideas?" Pause. " _Designs?_ "

Something clicks and Jean-Jacques's grip tightens on his cellphone. "... you're not serious."

Cao Bin laughs: an irritating, high-pitched sound. "It's such a lovely grey area in our industry, isn't it? Designs are just so essential, you see, whereas brands, well. We can easily come up with new brands; in fact, we do that all the time. Of course, it's an entirely different story if you have a written contract. _Do_ you have a written contract?"

"... no."

"So then, the real question you should be asking is: _does Lyublyu have the money to take a billion dollar corporation to court?"_ Another laugh; Jean-Jacques shudders. "Considering Viktor's desperate enough to collaborate with _you_ , I think we both know the answer to that."

"If that's your plan all along, then what the hell do you need me for?"

"Like I said, we need one of you for the press." There's the sound of a long, drawn-out exhale. "And Viktor's not strapped enough to forget his principles."

It dawns on Jean-Jacques, then, that he's dealing with a very amoral man.

Hours after their conversation, the French-Canadian finds himself immobile in his study room, staring blankly at the blueprints of Leo's underwear designs for LB, their shared proposal documents, and the offer for a lucrative contract with one of the biggest department stores in the United States.

He needs the money; with marriage on the way and Isabella absolutely eager for children this very minute, there just isn't enough time. The last thing he wants is to worry his darling fiancée about silly little business things, things that he should work out as the man of his new family.

Family.

"Darling," Isabella calls from outside, "Dinner's ready!"

He closes his eyes: a decision has to be made.

* * *

A month later, Viktor calls him.

"I suppose I should thank you for teaching Yuuri a valuable lesson in business," the Russian says in a clipped voice.

"That we're all human?" Jean-Jacques murmurs.

"The devil was a fallen angel," Viktor says quietly, "And how far he has fallen."

Jean-Jacques feels a bitter taste forming in his mouth. "I, I'm not…"

" – oh fuck your cryptic shit – _hey dickwad_!"

Eyes wide, Jean-Jacques flinches at the sudden volume. "Yuri…?"

 _"_ Yeah, that's right, you better _pray_ I don't ever see you again 'cause I'm gonna shove our bra wires so far up your traitorous ass – "

"Yura," Viktor snaps somewhere in the background.

" – you made the idiot pig _cry_ , and he fucking _ugly cries_ , and I blame _you_ for the nightmares – "

" _Yura, give me the phone_ – "

There are noises of a scuffle, more cursing, and then the call ends, the piercing tone echoing sharply in his ears.

"Oh JJ, my cousins finally RSVP'd, so we might have to shift the seating a little bit – " Isabella pauses, frowning. "Darling, what's wrong?"

Jean-Jacques rests his cellphone on his study desk and forces a smile. "Nothing, sweetheart. What was that about your cousins?"

As his beautiful fiancée spreads out the elaborate seating chart across his desk, he pushes Viktor's words into the far depths of his mind.

Even the Gods can be misunderstood.

* * *

 _ **Next chapter:**_

Yuuri can't believe he's crying in Viktor's office, in Viktor's arms, in - in -

Oh god, he's crying _in Viktor's arms_.

Vaguely, he wonders if Phichit's hiding somewhere with his cellphone out.

* * *

 ** _More notes:_**

Apologies to Cao Bin; I have no clue what he's really like in canon but his name's conveniently there lol. Watch him show up and be a total sweetheart in Season 2...


	6. Trust is overrated

_**Author's Notes:**_ _For the folks who enjoy Viktuuri hurt/comfort. It's a drabble's worth of hurt/comfort, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. Thank you again for reading and all your kind support!_

* * *

Yuuri sits at his desk, vaguely aware that someone is crying.

He's not sure who's crying; it could be him or someone else. Or he's hallucinating. Maybe it's him, because he certainly feels like he's crying. His throat is burning, chest tight, inhaling and exhaling in quick, shallow breaths. But his cheeks feel dry. Why _do_ they feel so dry?

"Guang Hong," Leo says quietly, "What's done is done."

Guang Hong hiccups, stuttering like he just can't cough out the words. "But your designs, he _stole_ your designs, you worked _so hard_ – "

Ah. At least he isn't hallucinating.

Yuuri stares numbly at the fashion magazines laid out across his desk, open to the assorted two-page spreads: "Century 31 Presents: Brand new JJ Style!" He feels like the brightly colored pictures are laughing at him, mocking him for his naiveté, his _foolishness_.

When Phichit called him, sounding so very grave, Yuuri thought it was another one of his best friend's silly pranks. It's when he stops by his nearest magazine stand that he realizes: it's not prank. It's not a prank at all.

And yet, the joke is still on him.

"Hey wimp!"

Yuuri barely has the time to react before he's shoved up against his desk, magazines scattering to the floor.

"What the _fuck_ happened?" Yuri snarls into his face, red and fiery and _pissed_. "Who does that puffed up peacock think he _is_? You get that asshole on the phone _right now_ so I can tear him a new one!"

Across, Leo rises from his seat. "I think we should all calm down – "

The intern releases Yuuri and whirls on Leo. "Why the hell are _you_ so calm? That's _your_ designs on those bloody spreads!"

"I don't see a point in talking about something that's already happened," Leo says, fists clenching by his sides. "We should focus on moving forward."

"I agree about not talking," Yuri growls. "We should go kick his arrogant ass – "

"That's enough."

There's an edge in the rich, tenor voice that Yuuri has come to adore so much. He drops his head to his chest, eyes squeezing shut. Yuri's fury is easy enough to withstand but not Viktor's; he can't bear to see the disappointment on his boss's face.

"Yuuri," says Viktor. Is it his imagination or did the sharpness dull, just a little? "Come."

Yuuri feels a hand wrap round his wrist and tug him, gently, off his seat.

Somewhere in the background, Guang Hong is still crying.

* * *

"I'm not angry," Viktor says.

Yuuri starts, and he looks up from his feet, eyes wide.

Viktor's expression is soft and relaxed, so unlike his brother's just minutes before. "Frustrated, perhaps," he adds. "But not angry."

"Why?" Yuuri hears himself say. "I've lost us time and effort that could've been put into the annual trunk show, and, and even some materials. Guang Hong had just began creating the product samples…"

"You were so very earnest," Viktor says, resting his chin on his hands. "And you weren't wrong about our finances; a commercial line would have greatly boosted profits." He tilts his head to one side, smiling softly. "I suppose a part of me also wanted to believe in the goodness of others."

Yuuri doesn't know how to respond.

He anticipated anger, outrage; maybe a lecture on his poorly managed business dealing. Instead, Viktor's being kind, so _kind_ , and he has no idea how to handle that.

"How can you not be mad at me?" he mutters, the lump growing rapidly in his throat.

"What was it you said, 'hiring me is a risk you'll have to take'?" Viktor rises to his feet, sliding smoothly round his desk to crouch down beside Yuuri, whose back shoots up ramrod straight in the chair. He reaches out to cup Yuuri's cheek, "Well I took that risk and that's my cross to bear."

Yuuri's breath hitches.

It's not right.

It's not _right_.

He said that in the interview on a whim – an act of bravery to impress – but he had hoped to turn into an asset, not an actual risk for the store. Least of all, he definitely hadn't meant for Viktor to take responsibility for _his_ stupid mistake.

"Yuuri?" Viktor says, concerned, thumb stroking lightly at his skin.

The tenderness in Viktor's voice and touch make Yuuri's chest constrict so painfully that a sob escapes from his throat.

Then, at the sight of Viktor's startled expression, finally, the tight rein on his emotions is released.

Yuuri cries.

* * *

Yuuri can't believe he's crying in Viktor's office, in Viktor's arms, in - in -

Oh god, he's crying in Viktor's arms, against his chest, on the floor of his office.

Vaguely, he wonders if Phichit's hiding somewhere with his cellphone out.

"I'm sorry," he gasps, trying in vain to suppress the tears – holding his breath, wiping at his eyes, even crushing his palm over his eyes; _anything_ to stop the damn flow – but it just keeps falling and falling and falling. "I'm so sorry."

"I know," Viktor murmurs as he rubs slow, gentle circles on Yuuri's back.

"I never thought Jean-Jacques would do that to us."

"I know."

"He seemed to really _want_ to work with us."

"I know."

"And Leo probably hates me now."

Viktor's movements cease, hand resting on the small of Yuuri's back. "I would think some part of Leo hates himself far more," he hums thoughtfully.

Yuuri pauses, swallowing a hiccup. "W-What do you mean?"

"He had the chance of a lifetime to start his own brand with a major corporation on a paid salary." Viktor chuckles. "Only a fool would turn that down."

 _That_ slows the flow.

Inhaling deeply, Yuuri pushes at Viktor's chest to lean back and stare into blue-green eyes. "You know he only stayed because he wanted to protect Lyublyu, right?" he says, eyebrows furrowing.

"Then he's a loyal fool," Viktor says, gazing back solemnly, "But a fool nonetheless."

Yuuri studies Viktor: the Russian's charm and youthful looks cause him to forget just how experienced Viktor is with engaging in business in the fashion industry, and the cynicism that must have built up over the years in the face of repeated betrayals and hostile dealings. No wonder he was so resistant to Jean-Jacques's pleas. Yuuri also realizes then, with burning shame, the sheer amount of risk Viktor had taken on him and his proposal with Jean-Jacques; his boss had allowed the collaboration with full anticipation of not only a broken contract but also the loss of one of his designers.

"I'm sorry," says Yuuri, dropping his forehead onto Viktor's shoulder.

"So you've said," Viktor replies quietly.

Without warning, there's a loud noise: the double doors slamming open so fast that they almost seem to fly off their hinges, before an irate blond stomps into the room.

"How long are you two gonna – are you _crying_!?"

Before Yuuri can respond, Viktor has drawn him closer, arms tightening around him in an oddly protective embrace. "He's upset," Viktor points out as he though he is speaking to a kindergartener, "Upset people cry."

Yuri shoots a dark scowl at his half-brother. "I _know_ why he's crying, I just – _ugh_." Shaking his head, the small boy snatches a tissue box on Viktor's desk and flings it in Yuuri's direction. "Wipe your nose, idiot, before you choke on your own snort."

"Thank you," Yuuri sniffles, taking a piece to blow his nose.

"Oh Yura," Viktor smiles broadly, "You do care!"

"Don't be stupid," Yuri snaps. "I'm just covering for your usual ineptitude. Also, that dirty bastard of a magazine writer is outside. Talk to him before I smash his face in for writing a _glowing_ review on JJ's shitty new brand."

"Ever so eloquent, dear brother."

Yuuri crumbles the tissue piece and picks another. "Do you mean, um…" he thinks back to the good-looking blond in leather pants, "Christophe…?"

"Yeah," Yuri nods at Viktor, face twisting in rage and disgust. "His _friend_ , who apparently _also_ follows a 'money before bros' policy."

Yuuri blanches, stomach coiling. "Him too?"

"How do you think those damn review spreads came out so fast?"

Yuuri's eyes grow as large as saucers as the revelation hits him. There must have been contact, secret talks, money exchanged under the table – pieces falling perfectly into place while he and Leo go on with their meetings with Jean-Jacques, blissfully and heedlessly in complete ignorance.

"Oh don't start your crying again," Yuri sighs irritably. " _Shit happens_."

Viktor smiles. "Welcome to the industry, my little bunny."

* * *

"We're not _all_ bad," Phichit says, sighing. "Though too many of us are."

Yuuri lays his cheek on the bar counter, relishing the coldness of the marble cooling the flush on his face. "I hate fashion," he mumbles.

Phichit pats his head gently. "I don't blame you."

"Should he be drinking?" Celestino asks, eyebrows raised.

"I've been counting," Phichit says reassuringly. "And he actually needs it tonight."

"Phichit?" Yuuri mutters.

"Yes, Yuuri?"

Yuuri frowns, concentrating hard on the swirl of words in his head. It's starting to get harder and harder to find the right ones.

"I hate fashion," he concludes.

"Yep," says Phichit patiently.

No, wait, that isn't what he meant to say. He might have actually said that once already. No, his sadness is trying to say something else; his _guilt_ is trying to say something else. Something like,

"I'm quitting."

Phichit chokes on a sip of beer. "You're _what_?"

Yuuri rolls to the other cheek, savoring the chilled contact. "I don't wanna cause Viktor any more trouble," he says miserably.

"Well Viktor isn't mad, right?"

"Only 'cause he blames himself for taking me in. Stupid move, stupid, stupid move; shouldn't have taken the risk." Yuuri pauses as a surge of irritation swims through his clouded mind. "Yeah, actually, that was really, really _dumb_ of Viktor. Really, _really_ dumb. Really, super duper, colossally, monumentally – "

"Right, you're done," Celestino says firmly, confiscating Yuuri's beer mug.

"Look, he took you in for a reason," Phichit says while Yuuri clutches sadly at the empty air for the mug handle, "And if he sees what I see? I don't think it's just because you're a hot piece of ass."

"I'm not a hot piece of ass," Yuuri huffs into the counter top. "I'm a _professional_ piece of ass."

"Exactly," Phichit smirks. "So get that professional piece of ass back on the job and start figuring out how to cut Lyublyu's losses."

"Mmp," Yuuri grunts. He lifts his face off the counter to drop his temple onto it, once, twice. The physical pain, coupled with the cold surface, is helping with the turmoil of emotions inside him. It's also helping him think. Sort of. Maybe.

"Thought of anything yet?" asks Phichit.

"Nope," Yuuri says, voice keening into a whine. "Total blank. Blankety, blank, blank."

"Drink," Celestino says, setting a glass of water in front of Yuuri.

"No thank you," Yuuri replies. "M'not hungry."

The Italian owner sighs and busies himself with polishing his glassware.

"You guys still have the annual trunk show, right?"

Yuuri looks up at Phichit, blinking owlishly. "Uh huh."

"So why not showcase the new commercial line?" Phichit suggests.

"But," Yuuri searches deeply for the name, that one traitorous, _dirty_ name he'll never, ever forget, "But Jean-Jacques took all of Leo's designs."

"So?" Phichit shrugs, "You can still start a new line."

Yuuri blinks again. He's having trouble comprehending his best friend, and he doesn't think it's entirely because of the alcoholic haze. "W-We can?"

"Oh yeah, just, you know, come up with a theme for the trunk show, jazz up the line a little and make it different from the collaboration with JJ style. People won't be able to tell the difference. What was the theme for the collab?"

"Um," Yuuri thinks, hard. "Everyday wear, I think?"

"That's not much of a theme at all," Phichit laughs. "I'll bet Leo made the designs real simplistic for practical use, too."

"So… so what does a theme look like?"

"Like 'passion' or 'desire' or even something as simple as 'spring'. Then the designers can create their patterns according to that theme, like, oh I don't know… maybe cherry blossoms for a spring theme or something. Or like, fire patterns for passion."

Yuuri sits up, Phichit's words processing slowly in his mind.

Annual trunk show with a theme.

Is it possible? Can it really be possible?

Could he actually ruin _and_ save Lyublyu in the same day?

"I'm calling Viktor," Yuuri announces, before tipping fully off the bar stool in his attempt to stretch for his briefcase.

"You go, buddy," Phichit says cheerfully.

* * *

 ** _Next chapter:_**

"I think we should sue," Guang Hong says fiercely, eyes wet with unshed tears.

Leo reaches out to ruffle his friend's hair with great fondness. Guang Hong had always been his most devoted fan.


	7. Sometimes parents do know best

_**Author's Notes:**_ _Bit of a filler chapter full of Leo/Guang Hong. Phichit's bae, but I'd love a friend like Leo, too. (*_*) Please enjoy!_

* * *

Leo's parents taught him to be kind, generous, and loyal. His father told him that a man ought to protect his family and friends, while his mother told him that it was all right for a man to _feel_ , to have emotions, and to express them, freely and openly – but also in words and with moderation, she corrected, when young Leo took her teachings to heart and displayed his frustration by kicking over an expensive vase.

As much as Leo loved his parents and followed their philosophies to the tee, he realized quickly, upon entering the fashion industry, that they had failed to imbue one thing in him: people around him might _not_ be kind, generous, or loyal. There was a fleeting moment in fashion school when Leo felt the urge to stray from his parents' lessons and take the easier, more _obvious_ route – the route that would work best for _him_. But the moment was brief, and he was quick to return to his senses and find his moral compass again.

So Leo does not blame Jean-Jacques for making the choice he did. He's upset with the man – _angry_ , really – but he understands. It takes courage to choose the path of moral high ground, but as they say, there is a fine line between bravery and foolishness. Somehow, looking at the colourful magazine spreads announcing Jean-Jacques's new line, Leo can't help feeling more like the latter.

"I think we should sue," Guang Hong cuts fiercely into Leo's reverie, eyes wet with unshed tears.

Leo reaches out to ruffle his friend's hair with great fondness. Guang Hong had always been his most devoted fan. The Chinese boy was a year below him in his fashion school when they first met, and Leo could never forget those wide, starry eyes as they ran over the poster presentation of his final-year project, the abashed stammering praise for his designs.

Even now, although it is _his_ designs that are stolen, Guang Hong seems a thousand times more devastated.

"We have no proof the designs are ours, just our words against his," Leo says quietly.

"Can't we show our originals? Or, or the prototypes I've started making?"

"They could easily turn the tables and say we stole it from them."

"They wouldn't," Guang Hong gasps in horror.

"I wouldn't put it past them," says Leo. Firmly, he closes the magazine and pushes it to the side. Honestly, he's not even sure why they took the damn thing with them; they're in a nice restaurant, grabbing a bite to eat after work. The last thing they need is a reminder of the horrid debacle.

"Let's eat," he says with as much as cheer as possible, nodding towards the menu in front of Guang Hong. "Have you decided yet?"

"I don't really have an appetite," Guang Hong says miserably, looking all too much like a kicked puppy. "How come you're so cheery anyway?"

"My mother always taught me to feel in moderation. Come on, when was the last time we had dinner together?" Leo cajols. He flips open the menu. "Look, they have your favourite! Crab rangoons!"

Guang Hong cracks a tiny smile. "That's _your_ favourite."

"And there's that pretty smile," Leo says, grinning.

The smaller man blushes, before he snaps up the menu to hide his red-stained face. "C-Can we share something? I'm really not that hungry."

"Sure, what are you thinking of?"

"Crab rangoons and chicken with broccoli?"

Leo laughs. "That's what _I'm_ thinking of, yes, but what do you want?"

Guang Hong lowers the menu to reveal large eyes and long, long eyelashes. Leo will never tire of those eyes. "I want whatever you want."

"That's rarely a safe decision," Leo says but he can't stop the affectionate smile splitting across his face. He beckons a waitress over to give their orders.

That's almost always how it worked for their meals together: Leo would select the dishes, and Guang Hong with his tiny bird-like appetite, would peck at the food till he could take in no more. The only exception is when Guang Hong takes Leo to his favourite Chinese restaurants – "You need to have some _real_ Chinese food now and then" – and the otherwise meek boy suddenly turns into a tiger, bickering with the servers in their native language and bellowing orders like a swearing sailor. The first time it happened, Leo was so amused that he asked Guang Hong if they could eat authentic Chinese food every day, to which the boy responded with an embarrassed giggle, reverting back to his docile self.

Leo is also secretly pleased that he's only the one who has seen this side of Guang Hong.

"Leo," says the boy in question, handing his menu to the waitress. "What're you thinking right now? You've got that weird smile on your face."

"Just your demeanor whenever we go to Dim Sum Paradise."

"Oh," says Guang Hong, turning beet red again. "I really don't mean to be rude – "

"No, no, I like it!" Leo says quickly, dropping his hand over Guang Hong's on the table. "Sweet little Guang Hong, all confident and fierce. It's _hot_."

For some reason, Guang Hong's flush grows even darker. "Thank you…"

"Do you think Yuuri's got it in him, too?" Leo ponders.

Guang Hong frowns, his small nose wrinkling in the most adorable fashion. Leo resists the urge to stroke his thumb over the creases until they smoothen. "Maybe? He must have _something_ for the boss to be so intrigued by him."

"I think the boss is more than intrigued," Leo says, waggling his eyebrows.

"Silly," Guang Hong giggles, before his expression falls slightly. "Do you think Yuuri's okay?"

Leo turns somber then, lips uncurving. Guang Hong had burst instantly into tears at the news, but their new co-worker had taken a completely opposite reaction: he went completely catatonic, staring into space with blank eyes. It looked almost _soulless_ and Leo had frankly felt a little frightened for him, if it weren't for Viktor's arrival soon after.

"He seemed better after coming out of Viktor's office… and he's got that best friend in town – who was it? Phichit? So he'll be okay."

"You always sound so sure about everything."

"I was sure about Jean-Jacques," says Leo, eyes darting to the magazine.

"Jean-Jacques is a lying _bastard_ ," Guang Hong says in his soft voice.

Leo grins. "Oh, I like _this_ Guang Hong, too."

As sure as the sun rises in the east, so does Guang Hong's endearing blush.

* * *

The next morning, Leo is surprised to find that he's not the first to enter the office.

He's even more surprised to learn that Viktor is also in the main office instead of his own, sitting atop one of the empty desks.

"Take a seat, Leo, Yuuri has an announcement to make," Viktor says smoothly, turning to glance at the marketing executive, who's pacing up and down the office with a nervous energy. "We'll wait till the rest have arrived."

"Cool," Leo says, not sure how else to respond.

When Guang Hong comes in, he sports the same look of bewilderment, before he scurries to his seat. The intern, Yuri, is quick to replace his surprise with his trademark scowl, but it's clear to Leo that the staffers are all extremely curious about this new turn of events.

"Yuuri?"

Yuuri twitches once at Viktor's call, before he hurries to stand at the center of the room. "We, um, we've made some decisions for the annual trunk show," he begins, voice wavering. When Viktor flashes him an encouraging smile, he seems to take confidence in that, straightening ever so slightly.

"We will continue with our plans to showcase the new commercial line for Lyublyu – " Leo's eyes widen, heart thrumming, as Guang Hong lets out a gasp " – and it'll be named 'L Designs' after the 'L' in 'Lyublyu' and the 'L' in… 'Leo'."

"Oh my god," says Guang Hong.

"Congrats," says the intern, face softening into a rare smile.

Leo stares at Yuuri, stunned. "Wait… really? You're naming the new line after _me_?"

"We felt you deserved it," Yuuri glances at Viktor, "For what you gave up for Lyublyu."

"Oh my god," says Guang Hong again.

"But… Jean-Jacques…" Leo falters. "He took the new line, didn't he?"

"That's why we'll have a theme," Yuuri replies, his voice sounding much stronger than when he first started speaking. "One that will make our _real_ line a far better one than the collaboration with Jean-Jacques."

"And what's that?"

Yuuri smiles. "'Rejuvenation'."

The intern looks slightly pained at the reveal, but Leo is too busy reeling in his own emotions to pay much attention. He'll have his own designs under Lyublyu – his _own brand_ – and with an absolutely fitting theme to boot.

"You'll have to create more designs, of course," Viktor says, leaning back on the desk. "Are you up for it?"

Beaming, Leo leaps to his feet. "Yes," he cries freely and openly, throwing his arms into the air, " _Hell_ _yes_!"

As Guang Hong scrambles across the desks to fling his arms round Leo in a tight hug, whooping in delight, Leo makes it a note to drop his parents a thank you call.

Kindness, generosity, and _loyalty_ , do go a long way.

* * *

 **Next chapter:**

"I don't even know why we're talking to you, when the only thing you assholes are ever interested in are _money_ and people's lips perpetually planted to your rotten behinds!"

There's a beat – Yuri can practically _hear_ Yuuri's heart rate shooting to insane levels beside him – before the magazine editor arches an eyebrow. "No one's spoken to me like that before."

"I'm so sorry," Yuuri blurts out, "We've had a bad day and he's just really upset – " He stops when the editor holds up a hand.

"What's your name?" the editor asks.

"Yuri," says the blond, crossing his arms. "What's it to you?"

"Hm," says Otabek in response, a contemplative expression on his otherwise stoic face.


	8. Life really is like a Harlequin romance

**_Author's Notes:_** _Writing Yuri is like channeling your inner angry cat lol. Finally, the start of some Otabek/Yuri and a version of Otabek's romantic, "you have the eyes of a soldier". Please enjoy and, as always, let me know your thoughts. :3_

* * *

If there's anything Yuri hates more than snooty fashion critics, it's the snooty magazine editors, with their branded outfits and their noses permanently turned up in the air. So he's extremely irritated to find out that his half-brother has assigned him to shadow Yuuri to grovel, plead, and beg for an article about their new commercial line. "I think it'll be a wonderful lesson on humility," Viktor had said with that stupidly bright smile of his.

Well, Yuri wants to shove a lesson on humility straight up Viktor's –

"Quick, she's coming out!"

The blond rolls his eyes aggressively to the sky as Yuuri drags him by the arm to approach a woman in a well-pressed Gucci suit. As she marches out of a photography studio, several others join in the pursuit, pressing and pushing to greet the woman, offering bags of samples in her line of sight.

"It's our newest line," Yuuri tries to raise his voice above the others, "From Lyublyu lingerie!"

"Lovely, lovely," the woman responds, flicking her wrist dismissively, "Hand them to my assistant and I'll look over them in my free time."

"She'll never look at it, you know," Yuri snorts after Yuuri gives a bag to the harried-looking assistant, stumbling from the weight of samples in her arms. "All this does is inflate their overblown ego."

"Yes," sighs Yuuri, "But we have to keep trying now that Viktor's usual reviewer is writing on JJ Style."

"Got bought off, you mean," Yuri growls. "I never trusted that greasy Swiss."

"Right, well, we should go to our next location," Yuuri says dutifully, "Once I can find that list …"

Shifting the samples to one arm, the Japanese man digs in his pocket with his free hand. Yuri can't even fathom how Yuuri could fit anything in those pants, with the leather material clinging so desperately to Yuuri's thighs like a second skin. He _definitely_ doesn't want to recall the look of hunger in Viktor's eyes when Yuuri bent down to pick up the sample bags, like a cat waiting to be fed after starving for three days. Why Yuuri chose to bend like that in the first place is another thought Yuri refuses to entertain.

Disgusting flirtations aside, Yuri is beginning to understand what his half-brother sees in Yuuri. He's nice, yes, and easy on the eyes, but lots of people are nice and easy on the eyes, and Viktor – the charming bastard – can easily find another with those same qualities in a heartbeat. No, Yuuri is intriguing because of his little bursts of determination and _fire_ in between the periods of nervous, insecure stammering, and much as Yuri loathes to admit it, he has come to anticipate the next streak with some thrill.

Even now, going about and throwing himself shamelessly at fashion editors – Yuri might even call it 'admirable' if that very same man weren't tilted at an odd angle with bags on one hand and fruitlessly digging into those stupidly tight leather pockets with the other.

"Oh give me those," Yuri snatches the bags from Yuuri, "You look ridiculous."

"Thanks," Yuuri says with a soft smile, and Yuri huffs, embarrassed by the older man's sincerity.

"Yeah, whatever."

* * *

Their next stop is at _Magnifique Designs_ for an actual appointment with the editor in his office. Yuri is fairly impressed that Yuuri managed to pull that off; most editors of lesser-known magazines would never deign to meet with people selling niche products like Lyublyu, never mind a juggernaut of the industry like _Magnifique Designs_.

Yuri's mood takes an instant dip when he learns how the appointment was actually set up.

"You came," Christophe says brightly, spreading his arms in an extravagant gesture.

"What the fuck," says Yuri, crushing the flimsy bag handles in his fists, "Who do you think you are, greeting us like you haven't done anything wrong – "

"Christophe," Yuuri cuts in quickly, accepting Christophe's hug and returning his air-kisses, "I can't thank you enough for setting this up for us."

"Oh no, no, darling, it's the least I can do for a beauty like you," Christophe purrs, his eyes roving down Yuuri's figure while Yuri shudders violently. Yuri knows all too well that the critic only ever turns on his flamboyant Dirty Old Man mode when he's attracted, and even Yuuri doesn't deserve to have _another_ filthy European after him. Viktor is more than enough.

"You have your visitor passes?" Christophe nods with satisfaction when Yuuri lifts the pass around his neck. "Excellent, excellent. Come, _ma beauté_ , the editor's office is this way…"

"Why are you doing this?" Yuri demands fiercely.

Christophe and Yuuri stop just beyond the turnstiles, turning back to face Yuri as he glares at them, refusing to budge another inch.

"Yuri," Yuuri starts, but the blond interrupts him with a scowl. "Do you think we'll let you off just because you're doing us this grand favor? Is this what it is, some guilty response to pay off the debt of your betrayal?"

And then Christophe smiles that sort of sad, patronizing grown-up smile that makes Yuri want to smack him across the face. "My little one," he says and Yuri _bristles_ , "I understand your anger, I do. And as I've said to Viktor, I am truly sorry for how things turned out, but it is my editor who makes the final calls on what I write. I did warn Viktor that he needed something new; it's just unfortunate that Jean-Jacques pulled the rug from under him first."

"Oh," says Yuri, fury building inside him, "So the editor we're about to meet is the very _bastard_ who's contributing to Lyublyu's ruin?"

Christophe and Yuuri exchange worried expressions. "That's not exactly how I would put it," the critic says tentatively, but Yuri has already shoved violently through the turnstiles and stormed towards the elevators.

"Yuri, this is an important meeting," Yuuri says quietly once they've settled in an elevator. "We could change the editor's mind if we played our cards right."

"And what cards do you propose we play," Yuri hisses, glowering at the rising numbers on the panel near the ceiling, "When the only cards they want are green and make the world go round?"

"Otabek's the youngest editor in recent history," Christophe points out, "Which also means he'll be keen to make his mark in the industry. You just have to convince him that luxury lingerie can do that for him."

"Our new commercial line," Yuuri says, and Yuri almost feels less furious at the spark he recognizes in the Japanese man's eyes. "That's our Ace in the hole: the famous Lyublyu designs being made for the masses. It's never been done before."

"I still fail to comprehend how I could've missed you the first time," Christophe exhales in a dramatic sigh.

"I was quite bland and ordinary then," laughs Yuuri, seconds before he lets out an undignified squawk in time to the _ding_ of the elevator's doors.

"Here we are," Christophe announces as he sweeps out of the elevator, looking extremely pleased with himself. "Otabek's office is straight down the hallway; I'll just let his assistant know you're here."

"Serves you right for wearing those pants," Yuri snorts as a red-faced Yuuri stumbles out next to him, hands covering his behind like a shield.

* * *

Barely visible past the mountains of files and product samples covering his desk, Otabek Atlin, the young editor of _Magnifique Designs_ , is a reserved, flinty-looking man with eyes as hard as steel. Though Otabek is clad in only a simple dress shirt, the white sleeves rolled up to his elbows, Yuri finds himself wondering why all the bastards in the world also have to be so devastatingly handsome.

"Yuuri, is it?" Otabek leans back in his seat, placing the tips of his fingers together. "What is it you want from _Magnifique Designs_?"

Startled by the man's bluntness, Yuuri blinks once, before he hastily holds up a bag of samples. "We're from Lyublyu, and we wanted to show you some samples of our new commercial line if I could, um," Yuuri's eyes dart about the piles on the desk, "Lay them down somewhere…"

"You want us to write about your new line."

"Well," Yuuri blinks again, "Yes."

"Why?"

"What?"

"Why should we write about your new line?" Otabek cocks his head to one side, tapping his forefingers lightly against each other. "How does that benefit us?"

"Because – "

"And what makes your new line more interesting than all these other new lines?" the editor adds, gesturing to the products on his desk.

"Well - "

"Lingerie is a dying business, is it not?"

"Yes but - "

"We're _Lyublyu_ ," Yuri snaps then. He recognizes the bullying tactic right away: firing questions one after another without giving the other party time to respond with the sole purpose of driving up a person's anxiety until he's forced to give in. Yakov has done that to him plenty of times with his senior year project; he'll be damned if he allows this _fashion editor_ to do it to Yuuri. "We have regular patrons, new customers coming in with every trunk show, and we're the _leading_ brand in luxury lingerie. It's only natural we'd be more interesting than all those shitty no-name brands trying to make their first breakthrough."

This time, it's Otabek's turn to blink, before he recovers swiftly. "But suppose I were to promote one of these 'shitty no-name brands' and they happen to make it big?" he counters. "Wouldn't that be more beneficial for the magazine?"

"The magazine, the magazine, does it always have to be about the magazine?" Frustrated, Yuri flings his arms in the air while Yuuri gawks at him with his mouth wide open. "Does anyone actually think about the stores and businesses that put out the effort to create, design, and _produce_ the very clothes you wear on your back? No, it's all about the magazine and what we lower beings can do for _you_. I don't even know why we're talking to you, honestly, when the only thing you assholes are ever interested in are _money_ and people's lips perpetually planted to your rotten behinds!"

There's a beat – Yuri can practically _hear_ Yuuri's heart rate shooting to insane levels beside him – before Otabek arches an eyebrow. "No one's spoken to me like that before."

"I'm so sorry," Yuuri blurts out, "We've had a long day and he's just really upset – " He stops when Otabek holds up a hand.

"What's your name?" Otabek asks.

"Yuri," says the blond, crossing his arms. "What's it to you?"

"Hm," says Otabek, a contemplative expression on his otherwise stoic face.

They sit in awkward silence for a while, as the editor continues to gaze at Yuri with his dark eyes at half-mast. Then, finally, Otabek leans forward, resting his arms on whatever space he can find on his desk. "I can't make any promises," he says, "But I'll consider it."

Yuri stares at Otabek in surprise just as Yuuri exclaims in delight. "Thank you, thank you so much! I gave you my business card earlier, so please contact us anytime! Shall I leave the sample for you?"

"Not here," the editor replies, not breaking his penetrating gaze on Yuri, and Yuri feels his stomach coil in an unfamiliar sensation. "It'll get lost with the others. Kenjiro!"

"Yes, Mr. Atlin, Sir!" yelps a voice from outside, before a young man dashes into the room with a frantic look on his face. There's a shocking streak of red atop the man's dyed hair, which reminds Yuri so much of a chicken that he almost asks for the name of the assistant's hairstylist if only to _avoid_ such poor styling choices.

When Otabek turns away to face chicken-head, Yuri strongly squashes the twinge of disappointment in his chest.

"Hold onto Lyublyu's sample for me, Kenjiro, my desk is, ah, indisposed."

"Yes, Sir – " Kenjiro halts abruptly when Yuuri rises to hand him the bag. "H-H-Hello," he squeaks, turning a shade of bright, bright red, "I'm Kenjiro, Mr. Atlin's assistant!"

Yuuri smiles in polite confusion. "Um yes, I guessed as much. I'm Yuuri."

"Yuuri," Kenjiro breathes as he clutches the bag of samples to his chest, stars in his eyes.

Yuri slaps a palm to his forehead.

* * *

"I swear, he's releasing some kind of sexual pheromone or something. Every gay man wants to bang him the second they lay eyes on him."

"Except you," Mila sniggers.

"Except me," Yuri affirms, face twisting in horror at the thought.

"Maybe it's like cilantro," says Mila, "How some people say it tastes rotten whereas others like the lemony lime sort of flavor?" She yanks again at the zipper on her suitcase till it reaches the end of the track. "Finally!"

"Put a belt on that thing," Yuri snorts, flopping down onto his back and watching his roommate upside down, "Unless you want it to burst open at the airport."

As Mila ducks into her bedroom to follow up on Yuri's suggestion, the blond stretches languidly on the couch, enjoying the slow, lazy pull of his muscles. After a week of shadowing Yuuri around, running about in the cold and simpering after all those stupid editors, it feels amazing to be able to relax in his warm apartment. It's just too bad Mila has to rush off to another runway show in Paris, or they could spend a quiet evening together.

Ever since Mila passed the auditions for the J. Crew catalogue, she has slowly but surely risen to join the ranks of international top models, booking shows and photoshoots across the globe. Yuri remembers the first time Mila realized her newfound status: it was when she was asked to walk for New York Fashion Week.

"New York Fashion Week, New York Fashion Week!" she had shrieked, leaping about all over the apartment. "I couldn't believe it when my agent told me – oh my god, Yura, listen to me talking about _my agent_!"

Yuri is happy for his roommate, of course. After all her hard work, she deserves her fame and success. At the same time, he misses her loud presence in the apartment, which feels strangely large when Mila isn't around.

"What about that dashing editor?" Mila yells from her bedroom.

Then again, his roommate can be really annoying at times.

"What _about_ him?" Yuri yells back.

Mila pops her head out, grinning. "He sounds more interested in you than the other Yuuri."

"Sure, because it's only natural to be attracted to the man that's shouting in your face and calling you a greedy money grubber."

"Maybe he's into that sort of thing," Mila steps out of her room, belt in hand, "The intense display of honest passion and all that."

Yuri rolls his eyes, dropping his head back to watch Mila upside down again. "Life isn't like one of your trashy Harlequin romance novels. Not like I'd ever go out with some uppity fashion editor anyway."

"I don't see why not. How long has it been since you last had a date?"

"Hah, I have no time for dates with Yakov constantly breathing down my neck."

"That's a disturbing image," Mila wrinkles her nose. After wrapping the belt round her suitcase, she drags it over to the door where she pulls a fur coat from the coat rack and slips deftly into it. "Right. I'd better run or I won't make my flight. Let me know when Otabek asks you out, will you?"

"Not happening," Yuri shouts from the couch.

A week later, Otabek calls Lyublyu to arrange for a second meeting, asking expressly for Yuri.

Fending off Viktor's unadulterated glee and Yuuri's knowing smile, Yuri snatches at the phone to agree to the arrangement, feeling that same unfamiliar sensation in his stomach at hearing Otabek's quiet voice.

It's not a bad sensation at all, Yuri decides.

* * *

Next chapter:

"So you're Viktor," Phichit says cheerily, ambling up to stand beside the taller man.

"And you must be Phichit," Viktor says, smiling.

"As Yuuri's best friend, I'm obligated to question your motives."

Viktor turns to him, blinking. "Right now?"

Phichit looks about the empty bathroom. "Well, we're not going anywhere for the next few minutes, are we?"


	9. Trust in your best friend (sometimes)

_**Author's Note:** Apparently I cannot put Phichit and a bar together without including a drunk Yuuri. xD; Enjoy?_

* * *

Phichit swears that he was watching Yuuri, he really was. They were sitting right next to each other at the bar counter, as always, so there was no way he could have missed the third drink, or the fifth, or even the eleventh. Yet, somehow, he did, and his dear friend is now pulling off some sort of clumsy striptease, slurring drunkenly about feeling "so, so hot".

(All right, so maybe he did notice the third and the fifth, but he honestly did miss the eleventh; cross his heart and hope to die.)

"Phichiiit," Yuuri whines, unbuttoned dress shirt slipping off one shoulder in a most sensual manner. Phichit _feels_ the eyes of the bar's patrons trained on them. "None of the editorsh have contacted ush… _none_! How're we…" he hiccups, slumping onto Phichit, "How're we s'pposed to get publishity for, for, uh…"

"The trunk show," Phichit supplies.

"The trunk show!" Yuuri agrees.

"What about that the Atlin guy? Editor of _Magnifique Designs_?"

"He'sh only meetin' Yuri cause he likesh him…" Yuuri raises himself up to grasp Phichit by the shoulders. "Can you keep a shecret?" he asks, the solemnity of his face spoiled only by the adorably drunken lisp.

"You bet," Phichit grins eagerly.

Leaning forward, Yuuri presses his lips so close to Phichit's ear, the Thai man shivers at the warm breath tickling his skin. "I think Yuri likesh Atlin too," Yuuri whispers.

There's a beat, before Phichit snorts. "That's a shock."

"I know right," Yuuri says, pulling back to give a grave nod.

It's a good thing Ciao Ciao stepped out to run errands, leaving the bar in their care, or he would've swatted Phichit upside the head for letting Yuuri overdrink again. Even now, Yuuri is attempting – hilariously – to retrieve something from his shirt pocket, only to look down at himself in confusion at his state of undress.

"About your trunk show," Phichit says thoughtfully while Yuuri fiddles at his shirt buttons, failing miserably to stick them through the right holes, "Why don't you just stage a fashion show beforehand and invite editors to see it? They might be reluctant to write an article on Lyublyu, but they'd be curious enough to go to a free showcase by, well. _Lyublyu_."

"Why don't they jush write 'bout it then," Yuuri sulks.

"Because that's investing manpower and space in their magazines, which ultimately equates to money. Turning up to a fashion show that _might_ be interesting only takes ten minutes of their precious time."

Yuuri frowns. "Phichit?"

"Yes, my darling drunk?"

"D'you think Viktor'll let me hire _you_ as my assishtant?"

"Why don't you ask him right now?" Phichit suggests brightly.

* * *

Phichit washes his hands under the faucet, idly letting his mind drift.

Since they first met, Yuuri and Viktor have been engaged in some sort of elaborate mating dance, whirling and twirling around each other like fancy, elegant peacocks, neither making the first move. It's clear from the way Yuuri talks about Viktor that he adores the man, just as each new story he hears about Viktor makes the Russian's infatuation on Yuuri more and more obvious.

Just the fact that Viktor is letting Yuuri – a rookie in the business _and_ fashion world, bless his naïve little heart – make potentially devastating decisions for _Lyublyu_ on the pretext of it being "training" is something only a love-struck idiot would do. Really, Viktor would probably still craft some strange reasoning for forgiving Yuuri even if the younger man ran his business to the ground and set all his designs on fire.

Even tonight – this morning, really – Viktor had answered the phone within one ring, and insisted on coming down to fetch Yuuri home five minutes into the conversation. (Of course, it might have had something to do with Yuuri asking very sincerely if he could "have Phichit under him, like, right now" in an alcohol-roughened voice; Phichit had to bite on his fist to keep from laughing in the stunned silence that followed.)

Phichit thought the voice mail that Yuuri left ages ago would have turned the wheels of their relationship a little faster, but it seems the two men are determined to remain in stasis forever.

Well, not if he can help it.

Stepping out of the bathroom, Phichit pauses at the door.

Viktor's here: the man's handsome features and shimmering silver hair standing out under the bar's dim lights. (At least Yuuri isn't exaggerating about his boss's good looks.) What stops Phichit in his tracks, however, is not Viktor's presence.

No, what stops Phichit is the incredibly risqué scene playing out in front of him – and every other patron in the bar.

"Viktor~" Yuuri's purring, pressing Viktor up against the counter with his body, shirt _finally_ sliding off the other shoulder to hang loosely over his back, "You came~"

"Of course," Viktor says softly. The Russian man's face is hard to read, but judging by the way his fingers are digging into Yuuri's hips, it's probably taking all of his effort to keep from ravishing his best friend in public. Not that Yuuri is making it any easier for him, nuzzling into the poor man's neck like a contented cat.

There's a split second where Phichit wonders if he should actually help Yuuri, but it's only for a split second.

Gleefully, Phichit snaps several pictures on his cellphone instead.

In the meantime, Viktor has lowered his head to murmur something to Yuuri while his hands work deftly at adjusting and buttoning up Yuuri's shirt. Whatever he's saying works: Yuuri actually stills, listening to the whispered words.

Then, the Japanese man raises his head and pouts sadly. "Do we really have to go now?"

"I'm afraid so," Viktor says, smiling. "I just need the restroom for a minute and then I'll take you home, all right?"

Yuuri nods again, throwing his arms round Viktor for tight hug, which Viktor takes another few minutes to disentangle himself from.

Quickly, Phichit steps to the side as Viktor breezes past him into the bathroom after that, moving as though his pants are on fire. When Phichit peeks inside, Viktor is hunched over, eyes closed, gripping the sides of a sink like it's the only thing holding him up. Then, after a deep breath, the Russian straightens and turns on the faucet to splash water at his face, scrubbing wildly now and then, as though trying to rid himself of the images in his head.

To think the great designer of the most renowned lingerie company in the fashion industry can be brought so easily to his knees by a drunk subordinate; the poor, poor man.

Out of compassion, Phichit waits till Viktor seems to have composed himself before he reenters the bathroom. "So you're Viktor," he says cheerily, ambling up to stand beside the taller man.

Viktor starts, but his photogenic smile swiftly slides into place. "And you must be Phichit," he says, sweeping wet bangs back and looking somehow more radiant with droplets of water rolling down the side of his face.

"Yep," Phichit says cheerfully. "As Yuuri's best friend, I'm obligated to question your motives."

Viktor blinks. "Right now?"

Phichit looks towards the bathroom door. "It's either that, or outside with Yuuri plastered to you like he's going to – "

"Ask away," Viktor interrupts, wincing.

Phichit beams. "Okay, question one: what are your exact intentions with Yuuri?"

"To stay with him and love him for the rest of my life."

There's a beat of silence, before Phichit lets out an awkward laugh. Given how Viktor and Yuuri are so inept at expressing their feelings to each other, he didn't expect such an honest answer. He most certainly didn't expect such _sincerity_ , either. It's almost embarrassing to hear that about one's best friend. "Okay, well, that answers questions two and three."

Viktor's lips curve. "How many questions are there?"

Phichit shrugs. "Depends, depends. It's the first time I've had to do this, so I'm playing it by ear."

The blue-green eyes gleam brightly. "So I'm Yuuri's first?"

"Which makes this all the more important," Phichit points out, and he appreciates Viktor's understanding nod in return. "So, next question: what do you love about Yuuri?"

"I love everything about him," Viktor replies instantly, face softening into a most tender expression. "His determination, how he tries so _hard_ at everything he does, that nervous gesture he does with his lips, the way his cheeks turn pink at my every touch, his sweet voice, his innocence, his beautiful, expressive brown eyes, that firm, rounded behi – "

"All right, all right," Phichit laughs, waving a hand. "Then I have to ask this next one: _why_ haven't you asked him out yet?"

And just like that, Victor Nikiforov, the confident, suave heartthrob who graced the cover of fashion magazines as the hottest fashion designer in New York City for years, looks lost – like a little boy who couldn't find his mother in the mall. (Phichit never thought that flawless face could even form that kind of expression.)

"Well I… I want to take it slow with him. I want to treat him right." Viktor gazes at the bathroom door. "But I also know that I wouldn't be able to hold back if I did try anything with him, even just to go on a dinner date."

"So let me get this straight," Phichit says, eyebrows raised. "You haven't asked Yuuri out because you're afraid you might jump his bones?"

"That's what I've done with past lovers and it hasn't worked out so well," Viktor sighs forlornly.

Wow, okay. That sheds a whole new light on things.

It also confirms that Viktor really has it _bad_ for Yuuri.

Phichit leans forward to punch the designer lightly in the arm. "You know, being a gentleman is great and all, but I can tell you with absolute certainty that Yuuri wouldn't be opposed to any sort of jumping whatsoever."

"Are you encouraging me to sleep with your best friend?" Viktor says with amusement, rubbing at his arm.

"Hey, I do whatever I think is good for my buddy." Phichit pauses, recalling the incriminating pictures in his cellphone. "Most of the time, anyway."

"And that includes advising his boss to take him on a date?"

"Just as you can count on me to kick your ass if you make him cry," Phichit smirks. "So? Think you can manage one little dinner with Yuuri?"

Viktor chuckles. "The thing is, Yuuri's such an innocent tease that I don't think I could even last through the meal. Just the other day, in _leather pants_ – "

Phichit doesn't get to hear what precisely Yuuri has done in leather pants – though his imagination can more than fill in the gaps – because the man in question has burst into the bathroom with a panicked expression.

"Viktor!"

Frantically, Viktor rushes forward to catch Yuuri when the smaller man trips over his own feet, nearly landing on his face.

"You were gone sho long, I thought you'd drowned in the toilet!" the Japanese man wails, wrapping his arms round Viktor's neck.

There's a beat, punctured only by Yuuri's hushed sniffles.

"Yuuri," Viktor says quietly then. "Where are your pants?"

"Pants…?" says Yuuri, blinking. He glances down at his bare legs, before looking back up, smiling broadly at Viktor. "I have no idea, but do you like my new silk boxers? I bought them just yesterday." And then, to Phichit's absolute amazement, his sweet, innocent best friend _rolls_ his hips into Viktor's, while the Russian man stiffens like a board. "Don't they feel so good~?"

The possibilities of what Yuuri has done in leather pants suddenly increase tenfold.

"I'll get his clothes," Phichit snickers, before an evil thought crosses his mind, and he raises an arm to salute Viktor. "Phichit Chulanont hereby entrusts the care of his best friend in your chivalrous hands."

Viktor's face turns stricken. "No, _wait_ – !"

Grinning, Phichit lets the door of the bathroom swing shut behind him as he leaves the horrified (and probably really frustrated) Russian to his fate – or at least, for the next five minutes.

Phichit would rather his best friend have the best sex of his life when he's sober and on a clean surface, after all.

* * *

"Viktor likes the idea of a fashion show, though he says we'll need to pull together some experts. Like a runway director, for example."

"My new job puts me in touch with a couple of stage directors. I'll let you know if I find someone who can help?"

"Thank you, Phichit! Oh, also, Viktor says to tell you that he's, um, 'working on it'."

"Is he? Good for him!"

"How did you two meet anyway? Did one of your shows need a lingerie piece as a costume?"

"Yep, that is _exactly_ how we met."

"Weird that he never mentioned it. Do I want to know what he's working on?"

Phichit shifts the phone to his other ear, flopping onto his bed with a grin. "Don't worry your pretty head about it, Yuuri. You'll find out soon enough."

* * *

Next chapter:

"You're supposed to be out delivering samples, not finding men," Viktor says in clipped voice, arms folded across his chest.

"It's not like that!" Yuuri flushes, waving his hands, "It's just that, Mr. Stalker here is – "

"I have a name, dammit," Sara's brother snaps.


	10. We all get there eventually

_**Author's Notes:** A slightly longer chapter this time, partly because of plot things and also because the next chapter is likely to be delayed with finals hell descending upon me. Just two more chapters to go, folks! Please enjoy, and as always, let me know your thoughts! :3_

* * *

Yuuri is confused.

Viktor has always been kind to him, that's nothing new. Viktor has always been a little – and sometimes rather openly – flirtatious with him, that's not new, either. What is new, however, and quite befuddling, is Viktor's sudden tendency to be close to him and in his personal space nearly every minute of the day.

When Yuuri's changing the displays in the storefront, Viktor's by his side, a hand resting on the small of his back as they chat. When Yuuri's in the backroom, picking out a fabric piece for Guang Hong, Viktor's there, a hand on his shoulder. Even when Yuuri's at his desk, trying to craft the guest list and invitations, Viktor appears, reaching out to smooth in a loose cowlick that refused to be tamed.

It's not that Yuuri doesn't like Viktor's presence. On the contrary, the proximity of that musky cologne and light, gentle touches drive Yuuri to a point of nervous _distraction_ , so much so that he's no longer able to concentrate without thoughts of the handsome Russian invading his brain.

So when Leo announces one afternoon that the product distributions are ready for delivery, Yuuri nearly topples off his seat in his haste to volunteer for the errand. Carefully packing the products into custom-made Lyublyu bags, he resolutely ignores the knowing look Leo tosses his way.

"I think the boss is going to miss you while you're away," Leo remarks lightly.

"He's an adult, he'll be fine," Yuuri mutters, trying (and failing) to keep his cheeks from flaming in embarrassment.

"You're getting a call," Guang Hong points out, not looking up from his work.

"From Viktor?" Yuuri laughs, loud and nervous, "Surely he has more to do than just – "

"No, I mean, your phone's ringing. I can feel the vibrations on my desk."

Okay, he was _definitely_ blushing now.

Snatching up his cellphone, Yuuri turns away, mostly to avoid seeing Leo's wide grin. "Hello?"

"Yuu~ri, my bestest best friend," Phichit's voice singsongs, "You are so going to love me for this. Well, no more than you love Viktor, but still."

" _I don't_ _–_ " Yuuri glances surreptitiously at Leo and Guang Hong, but the Lyublyu designers thankfully have their heads bowed, absorbed in their work. "What's this about?"

"Ever heard of Michele Crispino?"

"I think you've mentioned him at some point. He's the stage manager for some Broadway plays…?"

"Yeah, just 'some' Broadway plays that happened to win a couple of Tony awards. He's one of the best out there when it comes to running and organizing a stage, _any_ stage."

"Right," says Yuuri, hunching his shoulder to awkwardly keep his phone pressed against his ear, using his freed hands to tie the Lyublyu ribbons to the bag handles, "So why are we talking about him again?"

"Yuuri," Phichit laughs patiently. "He's willing to meet with you to talk about managing your fashion show."

"Oh!" Yuuri almost drops his phone in excitement. How could he not have connected the dots? (He blames Viktor.) "That's, that's fantastic! When?"

"Can you get out of work at three this afternoon? He said he'd be at a Starbucks on Lexington Avenue… I can text you the address."

"I actually have deliveries to make on Lexington Avenue, so that works out great."

"Perfect. I have to go now, but tell the grouch I said hi~!"

"'Grouch'?" Yuuri asks, but Phichit has already hung up.

* * *

Yuuri's last stop is The Hanger, where Sara is just as sweet and bubbly as Yuuri remembers. Welcoming Yuuri with a delighted squeal, the store manager tugs him into the store to show him more pictures of her favorite model, and to proudly announce that her best friend is now officially at "Lee Seung-gil status". As they flip through assorted fashion magazines, Yuuri can't shake the vague feeling that something's missing from the store.

"Look at her," Sara sighs, patting the flat two-dimensional spread of a beautiful, sultry-looking redhead, posing for some denim ad and showing off legs, legs, and more legs. "Isn't Mila _amazing_? I'd so do her if I weren't straight."

"She's very pretty," Yuuri agrees politely, eyes darting about, trying to spot the missing item. Not the displays, no. Accessories section, check. Pants, check. Tops, check. Suit pants, check. Jackets, check.

"Do you know, she said she'd try to get Seung-gil's contacts for me? Best friend _ever_. Not to mention all the swag she shares from her modeling work."

Absently, Yuuri nods, gaze falling on the coat rack.

 _Oh._

"Your brother's not here today?" Yuuri notes the missing figure skulking about in the shadows.

"No, thank _god_ ," Sara says, rolling her eyes with mock exasperation to the ceiling. "Mickey's got some meeting at three today, but he's being all hush-hush about it for some reason."

"At three?" says Yuuri, blinking. "Where, um… where at?"

"The Starbucks two blocks down the street."

… _Oh._

Suddenly, the nickname 'grouch' makes so much sense.

* * *

"You're supposed to be out delivering products, not finding men," Viktor says in clipped voice, arms folded across his chest.

"It's not like that!" Yuuri flushes, waving his hands, "It's just that, Mr. Stalker here is – "

"I have a name, dammit," Michele snaps.

"I'm sorry, Mickey is – "

" _Michele._ Only Sara gets to call me that."

"Michele," Yuuri hastily amends while the Italian man scowls darkly at him, reminiscent of their young intern's angry expressions. (It's probably a good thing Yuri has taken the week off to work on his senior project.) "He's, um, a stage manager, and he's open to helping out with our runway show for free!"

"Michele Crispino," the Russian man drawls, eyes narrowing, long fingers drumming slowly on his arms. "You've managed award-winning Broadway stage plays. Why take on a short, closed fashion show without a fee?"

"Love your work by the way," Leo comments. Clutching Leo's arm, Guang Hong nods vigorously, eyes sparkling.

Apparently, Yuuri realizes with chagrin, people in fashion also know their way around Broadway theatres. He _really_ has a lot to learn about this industry.

"My sister loves fashion," Michele sniffs, averting his gaze with a sulk. "Just thought she'd like it if I managed a fashion show, at least once."

A beat.

Then, Viktor brightens, his mood taking such a complete 180 that Yuuri wonders if there's an on-off switch hidden somewhere under those exquisite features. "Wonderful," he says, slinging an arm round Michele, who hunches into his stalker coat with wide-eyed shock at being touched by another human being. "Why don't we discuss the details in my office?"

As Michele is forcibly led through the double doors, Guang Hong turns to Leo. "I don't get it," the smaller man says.

"A man with a sister complex would have no eyes for our Yuuri here," Leo explains. "Or, if you want to put a more professional spin to it, Michele's motivations sound pure enough. From a business standpoint," he adds when Guang Hong stares at him in horror.

"You could've started with the professional reason first," Yuuri flushes instantly.

"I could have," Leo agrees, grinning.

"Yuuri!" Viktor calls from his office.

"But that wouldn't be the boss's primary reason," Leo continues, as Yuuri scrambles to the office, slapping at his heated cheeks and shoving Leo's words out of his mind. Work, damn it, he has to focus on _work_.

It turns out that Michele the 'grouch' Crispino is incredibly professional, and oddly more self-aware than he lets on. After hearing about the theme and concept for the runway – "Figures it'd be some fruity shit like 'Rejuvenation'," the Italian snorts – he snatches a color pencil from Viktor's desk and sketches out a quick layout of the venue and stage on a notepad. "I'm thinking, purple lighting on the stage, yellow glitter on a white runway… gives a soft yet edgy sort of feel."

"Also the colors of chrysanthemums," Yuuri chimes in.

"About that," Michele taps the pencil tip on his drawing, "Did you want a backdrop? Like a sketch of a chrysanthemum with the show title on it, or say, some stock photo of a chrysanthemum field?"

"I have a sketch," Viktor says smoothly, "We'll use that."

"Good, all right. How big is this show, how long is the guest list?"

"It's pretty small," Yuuri says, "Just fashion editors and our business affiliates. And we're um…" He glances hesitantly at Viktor, who nods, and Yuuri feels his confidence spike. "We're set to produce ten new lingerie pieces for the commercial line, and we're hoping to include some of our more popular designs from past collections, so we're looking at maybe… six to eight models. We'll have a number once we've held auditions next Friday."

"Okay," Michele nods, leaning back in his seat with a satisfied air. "Give me the final number when you have it. I'll work out the cues, but I'm not a people person, so my assistant manager will deal with the actual coordination."

"Emil Nekola?" Viktor asks. "I wondered why you came alone."

"Whatever the damn press says," Michele growls, "We're just _work_ partners."

"Is this not a work matter?" Viktor says, lips quirking.

"Yeah, but – that's – _what's your point_?" Michele splutters, turning a dark shade of red.

 _Oh_ , thinks Yuuri for the third time that day.

"In any case, we need to settle on a venue," Viktor says, ignoring Michele's question, voice tinged with amusement. "I know of a charming little gallery that might just suit our purposes. Why don't we scope that out together after work, Yuuri?"

"Oh, uh, me?" Yuuri snaps to attention, before shaking his head rapidly; _what kind of a stupid question was that_? "I, I mean, yes, of course."

"I have some business to attend to, so I'll meet you there as soon as I'm done. Shall we have dinner after?"

"Sure," says Yuuri. He tries to quell the odd flutter in his stomach as he watches Viktor shake hands with Michele, thanking the other man for his time.

Viktor asking to see him outside of work – that's definitely new, too.

* * *

By the end of the day, Yuuri is no longer confused.

He's a _wreck_ of nerves.

The gallery that Viktor has suggested is an elegant space that's perfect for a Lyublyu fashion show, especially with its special exhibition of Renaissance art lining the walls. It's quiet, the only sounds coming from the whispers of couples as they linger at various art pieces, arms linked and pressed intimately close to each other. On his way to their rendezvous spot, he also noticed the rows and rows of romantic, dimly lit European restaurants on the street leading up to the gallery, ranging from French to Italian, and even the occasional Mediterranean.

The more Yuuri thinks about it, the more it's starting to sound like Viktor has asked him on a date.

Repeat: his ridiculously, ethereally _gorgeous_ boss, Viktor Nikiforov, might have asked him on a _date_.

Yuuri tugs self-consciously at his shirt collar, finding it difficult to breathe, even with the top two buttons loosened for more air. Had he known he'd be in such a situation, he would have worn something less casual than his favorite spring shirt: a collared midnight blue shirt with little cherry blossom petals fluttering across the front. He's also starting to doubt if the white skinny jeans and dark brown belt he had selected actually did go well with the shirt, or if he had simply hallucinated a complimentary set in the mirror.

What he needs right now is a distraction, something to take his mind off Viktor, something to calm his heightening emotions, something to –

A flash of gaudy purple catches his eye.

"Oh, JJ, this is _lovely_."

Oh _no_.

Of all the millions of art galleries in New York City, Jean-Jacques and his fiancée just had to visit the exact same gallery on the exact same day at the exact same time.

 _Take back the distraction, please take back the distraction_ , thinks Yuuri, as he flattens himself against the wall, mentally shrieking a prayer to every possible deity and god above that the couple will, by divine intervention, walk straight past him without noticing his presence.

Unfortunately, the higher beings must have a twisted sense of humor, because the designer turns just enough for his eyes to meet Yuuri's across the corridor.

"Yuuri…?" Jean-Jacques cocks his head to the side while Yuuri struggles to right himself and look like a normal person who wasn't just attempting to blend into the gallery wall. "What are you doing?"

"Just uh, just… looking at that painting, you know, to see if distance adds a new perspective," Yuuri says, pointing vaguely at a painting on the opposite wall.

"Right," chortles Jean-Jacques, clearly convinced. He turns back to his fiancée, who's eyeing both of them with curiosity. "Isabella darling, could you give us a minute?"

Isabella raises an eyebrow at Yuuri, but nods once. "Only a minute," she warns, leaning up to peck Jean-Jacques on the cheek, before sauntering off to study another painting further down the corridor.

"So." Jean-Jacques sticks his hands in his pants pockets and lowers his gaze, rocking slightly on his feet. Yuuri realizes, with amazement, that this is how the great, confident creator of JJ Styles looks when he's… _uncertain_. "From 1 to 10, how mad was Viktor?"

"Um," says Yuuri, "Three…? He said he was expecting it."

"Ouch," the designer chuckles. "Guess that says a lot about his impression of me."

Yuuri swallows, clasping his hands awkwardly in front of him. "Why did you do it?" he asks quietly.

White teeth flash in a roguish smile. "Would it matter if I told you?"

"It'd help me understand."

Jean-Jacques hesitates – JJ, _hesitating_ – before he idly lifts a hand to trace the rim of his fedora hat, eyes flicking over to his fiancée. "Let's just say the contract guaranteed the life that Isabella and I wanted."

"I see," Yuuri frowns, worrying at his bottom lip between his teeth. Though he can appreciate Jean-Jacques's wish to provide for his future family, he doesn't really understand, not fully, because he's fundamentally a different person from the Canadian designer. (Yuuri Katsuki would never have broken his word.) A part of him is also annoyed – no, _disappointed_ , actually – that he has yet to hear a single apology from the other man's mouth.

A part of him wants to show Jean-Jacques Leroy just _exactly_ what he has sacrificed and thrown so easily to the wayside.

"Well, I think my minute's up," Jean-Jacques grins, tipping his hat, "I'll see you – "

"Come to our fashion show," Yuuri blurts out.

Startled, the blue eyes widen. "What?"

Yuuri inhales deeply; he's taken the plunge, so it's time to dive in deep. "We're holding a closed couture show." He lifts his chin in a show of confidence. "For our new commercial line, 'L Designs'."

For a moment, Jean-Jacques doesn't respond. He stares at Yuuri, hands back in his pockets, an unreadable expression on his face. And then, after what felt like years, the designer throws back his head in a loud laugh. "Throwing down the gauntlet, huh?"

"Oh, um, I was just – "

Jean-Jacques stretches out a hand, winking. "I accept your challenge, Yuuri Katsuki. Just let me know when."

Yuuri pauses, before he takes the designer's hand with a firm shake. "You'll receive an invitation shortly."

Nodding, Jean-Jacques takes his leave, still chuckling to himself. From afar, Yuuri hears Isabella remark, "That's the happiest I've seen you in a while. Good talk?"

"Great talk," Jean-Jacques drops a kiss on the crown of his fiancée's head as he steers her deeper into the gallery.

A hand to his heart, Yuuri lets out the breath he was holding the entire time he waited for Jean-Jacques's response. He wasn't sure how the Canadian would react, but it seems to have worked out well.

That is, assuming Viktor isn't opposed to the idea of Yuuri inviting a traitor to their fashion show.

"Yuuri," a low voice purrs into his ear then, and Yuuri nearly leaps out of his skin. "Well done."

" _Viktor_?" Yuuri whips round, flushing. Even with the golden era of art displayed across the walls, Viktor's beauty still manages to stand out in a simple black polo shirt and faded jeans, silver hair gleaming magnificently under the bright gallery lights. "W-What do you mean, 'well done'?"

"Inviting Jean-Jacques Leroy to our runway show? I never would have thought of that," Viktor says, blue-green eyes glittering with such pride that Yuuri feels his chest warm with elation.

"So you're okay with it?"

"More than okay."

"Great – wait," Yuuri blinks, eyebrows furrowing, "You were listening the whole time?"

"Just the tail end of it," Viktor's lips curve, as he presses a hand on Yuuri's hip. "Come, let's determine the suitability of this gallery for our show quickly so we can make our dinner reservation at seven."

Yuuri's cheeks flare pink at the feel of Viktor's hand searing through his jeans. "R-Reservation?"

"Is that all right?" Viktor asks, tilting his head just enough for his hair to fall artfully over one eye.

" _Yes_ ," Yuuri gasps, before slapping a hand over his mouth, stunned by the breathlessness of his own voice. He's acting like a giddy teenager and he really needs to get a hold of his excitement in front of his boss – his very, _very_ good-looking boss. Who is kind of, maybe, suggesting a dinner date? "I mean… yes, that's all right."

"Good," says Viktor, looking extremely pleased.

* * *

"Oh my god," Phichit cracks up on the other line, "He actually _sang_? Like in front of the whole restaurant?"

"He did!" Yuuri rolls to his side on the bed, burying his burning face in the pillow at the mere memory of it. "He just, took the microphone they offered him, and… went at it!"

"Wait, okay, wait – " Phichit chokes on his laughter, "Walk me through this again. So some musicians come up to perform for you guys, and then?"

"It was like this romantic Italian love ballad or something, and it was all really nice, bit embarrassing, but it was _nice_ , you know, until… until the singer holds out the microphone to Viktor and goes like, 'You try now, eh, you try' – "

"Is that your Italian accent?" Phichit gasps; Yuuri can practically envision the tears streaming down his friend's cheeks. " _Please_ do it in front of Ciao Ciao, _please._ "

"Shut up," Yuuri laughs, "So anyway, Viktor _takes_ the microphone, whispers something to the guy holding the keytar, and then starts _singing_. I swear to you, I almost died choking on my pasta."

It takes a moment for Phichit to recover. "Was he any good?" he finally manages, audibly sucking in deep breaths of air.

"He _was_ , he was _so_ good. God Phichit, is there anything he _can't_ do?"

"Confess his love to you like a normal person, apparently," Phichit snickers.

Yuuri frowns. "Wait, what? What does that have to do with anything?"

"Seriously?" There's a heavy sigh on the other end. "He sang an Italian love song. On a date."

"We never actually established it to be a date," Yuuri mutters.

"Let's review the facts, shall we? He made reservations at a trendy, Michelin 3-star Italian restaurant downtown, serenaded you and the rest of the restaurant for part of the meal, and then, correct me if I'm wrong, paid for the whole evening. How is that not a date?"

"Because… Because he's _Viktor Nikiforov_. Why would he want to date _me_ , some rookie nobody from nowhere?"

"Yuuri," Phichit says gravely after a long pause, "As your loving best friend, it is my duty to inform you that you are, occasionally, the biggest idiot I have ever had the privilege of knowing."

"Okay well, assuming you're right, why won't he just say he likes me then?"

"Because you're _both_ idiots."

"I'm so confused," Yuuri sighs into his pillow.

"It's like rats in a maze," says Phichit reassuringly. "You'll get there eventually."

* * *

Notes:

For reference, the song that Viktor sang, in my head canon, was Tu Per Me (You Are For Me) by La Voce Del Nord. ;)

PS: It is my firm belief that in every au and every setting, Viktor Nikiforov will always be extra.

Next chapter:

"We still need a second model to replace the other one," Michele says, frowning, "Or you're pretty much fucked."

"Do we know anyone who's about 5'7, 5'8?" asks Emil, flipping through the model profiles. "Preferably someone with a build that can pull off frills and lace."

As one, all heads turn to Yuuri, who stares back at them with wide, wide eyes.

" _Wow_ ," says Viktor brightly, "A whole new market just opened for us."

Yuri wonders for the millionth time why he chose to intern at Lyublyu: the filthiest place on earth.


	11. Life takes you by surprise in many ways

_**Author's Notes:** I'm back, baby! An exceptionally long chapter compared to the previous ones, partly because a lot happens in this chapter (including an anticipated scene?) and also because you've been so patient with me. :3 Without further ado, please enjoy! _

* * *

Yuri can't tell if he dislikes models, or feels sorry for them.

They all look the same after a while – skinny, malnourished women, with long legs that run forever and jawlines sharp enough to stab a person in the eye. Some are fairly nice, like Mila, but many have their noses perpetually turned to the sky, as though they're somehow considered higher beings solely by virtue of their bodies.

It's not hard to pick out the snobby ones; they always had the thinnest drawn-on eyebrows, the same infuriating I'm-alpha-bitch-get-used-to-it smirk. Yuri can see a number of them in the row of models standing in front of him right now, all poised and waiting for Viktor and Yuuri's inspection.

Though Yuuri's calling names and giving instructions, he has very blatantly left the evaluation aspect of the audition to Viktor, eyes barely leaving the clipboard in his hands.

Yuri snorts quietly to himself. It figures Viktor's walking sexual fantasy is also the blushing virgin type that can't bear to look at a woman in her skivvies.

Still, there seems to be a change in his brother's relationship with the business executive. Viktor's idiotic mooning for Yuuri has faded into a sort of calm familiarity: they're never far from each other's side these days, communicating constantly with smiles and soft eyes. Even now, the two men are standing ridiculously close to each other as though they were conjoined twins, glued at the hip.

It's getting too damn saccharine for Yuri to stomach, really.

"Hmm." Viktor taps his chin in his trademark pose of contemplation. He twirls his hand, and obediently, the model under inspection turns a full circle, heels clicking against the floor. The model has her chin raised, eyebrows in thin high arches, red ruby lips spread wide in an imperious smirk.

Snobby bitch alert, Yuri notes with his lips curled.

"Thoughts, Yura?" Viktor calls without looking back at him.

Pushing off the desk, Yuri steps forward to study the model with a critical eye. Her body's perfectly toned, of course – it'd be career suicide not to be – but the bust is on the larger end, practically threatening to burst out of her itsy bitsy bikini. If Yuri didn't know any better, this one's done work on her breasts, and showed up thinking that's all she needed for a lingerie showcase.

Except this is _haute couture_ , not a bloody playboy magazine.

"I'd suggest glamor modeling," Yuri shrugs. The model shoots him a dirty look.

Viktor chuckles. "As usual, your tact needs work, dear brother. We'll call you," he informs the model, before turning to whisper something into Yuuri's ear.

The Japanese man nods. He looks up at Viktor – and they exchange looks, all gentle and doe-eyed – before his gaze shifts to the models. "Ms. Avery Weber."

Jolting, the next model steps out of line, very nearly tripping over her feet.

Ah, a nervous rookie.

"Could you walk for us, please?" Yuuri asks, eyes darting back to his clipboard, flushing.

Yuri leans back against the desk with a sigh. This is going to be one hell of a long afternoon.

* * *

"I'm more inclined to feel sorry for models," Otabek remarks as he unpacks his lunch sandwich. "All that hard work, only to be told time and time again that their looks and bodies are unsuitable."

"Never took _you_ for a softie." Yuri takes a large bite into his sandwich. "Orange juice?"

"Here." Otabek tugs out two bottles from the brown paper bag and sets it on the desk. "I've seen the ugly consequences of repeated rejections, that's all."

Since their first dinner meeting – or 'date', not that Yuri really _cares_ – they've had a difficult time seeing each other with their busy schedules. It was Otabek who suggested quick, one-hour lunch meetings, and Yuri readily agreed. Both of them needed to eat, after all.

"Yeah, well, I've had my share of entitled bitches in fashion school," Yuri sniffed, twisting off the lid of his orange juice. "Worst thing is, Viktor chose the biggest diva out of the whole group to showcase his favorite design. I'd sooner go for the damn rookie."

"What's her name?"

"Sheila Ass-and-Tits."

Otabek snorts into his sandwich. "Sheila _Assante_ is up and coming. Helps to have a recognized model for that sort of thing." When Yuri scowls, the editor reaches out to pat his hand lightly. "But yeah, divas suck."

"Divas _totally_ suck," Yuri nods firmly.

Otabek smiles.

His hand lingers on Yuri's for a while longer, which Yuri doesn't mind one bit.

* * *

It's at the rehearsal that Yuri meets Michele Crispino for the first time.

The Italian man is efficient, sharp, and very, _very_ grouchy. He barks orders at staff like an unfeeling drill sergeant, and only his mild-mannered assistant, Emil Nekola, has the courage to approach him directly. And it's thanks to him that the art gallery has turned into a perfectly gorgeous set-up for a fashion show. The room is now lit with sensual purple lighting; Viktor's artful sketch hanging at the back of a white stage covered with brilliant gold glitter.

Yuri might have been impressed if he hadn't seen the way the older man averted his eyes from the models as they walk past, cheeks turning a dark scarlet.

Great, _another_ virginal one.

"Must they gallivant around in their, their…" Michele's voice drops to a hiss, " – _underwear_ , all the time?"

"They're modeling lingerie, boss," Emil says patiently.

"Yes, but why can't they put on robes or something during breaks?"

"They're comfortable, I suppose."

"What about _my_ comfort?"

"No one gives a crap about your comfort," Yuri says loudly, slinging his bag to the ground and dropping into a folding chair.

"What'd you say," Michele snarls, with Emil grabbing his arm, laughing.

"He's like a little mini-you!" says the assistant.

" _So not_ ," Yuri and Michele snap instantly.

Someone clears his throat, and as one, they snap round to glare at the intruder.

Flinching, Yuuri holds up his clipboard like some sort of shield. Beside him, Viktor appears to be holding back a grin, arms folded across his chest. "Sorry to interrupt," Yuuri flashes a sheepish smile, lowering his clipboard, "But we're ready for the rehearsal now."

Yuri moves to sit beside Viktor in front of the runway, while Yuuri steps backstage with Emil and a disgruntled Michele.

"What, not following your boy this time?" Yuri raises an eyebrow at his half-brother.

"Yuuri's a man," Viktor corrects, gaze set on the stage, smiling softly. "And no, he insisted on taking charge, so I'm just here to applaud his efforts."

Yuri leans back on the seat, crossing his legs. "You spoil him."

"I love him."

Yuri turns to Viktor, eyes wide. His brother's blue-green eyes gleam with an unfamiliar emotion, fond and tender and affectionate, and Yuri shifts uncomfortably. He never thought Viktor – flighty, unpredictable Viktor – was capable of such feelings.

"No witty comeback?" Viktor asks quietly.

Yuri exhales, shaking his head. "Does he know?"

"Well I haven't exactly been subtle."

"You've also had a million partners and probably half of the world's existing STDs."

"I think you've mistaken me for Chris," Viktor chuckles.

"You know damn well what I'm talking about," Yuri snaps, cutting Viktor's laughter short. "Your longest serious relationship lasted all of _two months._ I thought you were only hanging onto this one because he didn't put out as easily as the others, and we both know how you feel about challenges."

Viktor's eyebrows furrow. "Surely Yuuri doesn't think that, does he?"

"Ask _him_ ," Yuri huffs, just as the lights swing to the runway, and the music begins.

* * *

"I _told_ you these worthless shoes were too loose for me," the blond model hisses, flinging the stilettos at Michele.

"You asked for a size 7, we got you a size 7," Michele retorts, ducking. "What else do you want from us?"

"Some shoe brands are sized differently," Yuuri chews on his lower lip. "Does it hurt?"

"Gee, I don't know, my right ankle's swollen, so what's _your_ diagnosis, _doctor_?"

Watching as Yuuri bows, apologizing for an error that wasn't even his fault, Yuri doesn't feel a single ounce of guilt for laughing uproariously when Sheila Ass-and-Tits took a hard fall on the runway earlier, landing flat on her face. (Who knew the glamorous brunette had more swear words in her arsenal than a crusty old sailor?)

"Is there a problem?" Viktor is by Yuuri's side in an instant, his charming smile scarcely hiding the irritation simmering beneath.

Michele glares at the model. "This _bi_ –"

" _Sheila_ seems to have twisted her ankle, Mr. Nikiforov," Emil cuts in quickly.

"Oh Viktor," Sheila simpers, bending to clutch her ankle, exposing the low dip of her cleavage. Michele turns away, cursing, as Yuuri's eyes shoot down to his loafers. "It hurts so very much. All because these people refused to provide another pair of shoes despite my _repeated_ requests."

Yuuri doesn't shift his gaze. "We could have corrected your shoe size, if you had informed us during fittings like the other models – "

"I'm not 'like the other models', you silly chink," Bitchy Diva scoffs. Yuuri looks up then, stunned, while the other models narrow their eyes at her. "I'm _Sheila Assante._ "

The corner of Viktor's eyes crinkle, glossy lips curving in a thin arc.

Oh, thinks Yuri. He's seen that smile; he _knows_ that smile.

It's the smile Viktor gave when Yuri knocked over his late mother's favorite mug, and when their father forbade Viktor to open his lingerie store. It's the smile Viktor gave when Christophe first found the guts to comment on his lost Nikiforov creativity.

It's the smile Viktor gives when he's monumentally _pissed_.

Michele lunges forward first, "Listen, you racist little – "

"Thank you, Mr. Crispino," Viktor holds up a hand, and Emil tugs Michele back by his shirt collar. "But I believe Ms. Assante was expressing her concerns with me."

Yuri barely contains his glee; shit's about to hit the fan in the best way possible. (He'll never forget how _hard_ Viktor yanked on his blond locks after the mug incident – smiling the entire damn time.)

"Can you walk, Ms. Assante?" Viktor tilts his head; silver bangs falling carefully over one eye.

"I think I may need someone to carry me down the runway," the model pouts, eyelashes fluttering.

Viktor laughs, quiet and hollow. "Such admirable work ethic. But I was asking if you were able to go home without assistance; I believe it'd be best for you to sit out the show."

"You're so kind, unlike some people." The blonde smirks at Michele, who bristles in response. "I'm sure I'll be right as rain by the showcase – "

"You misunderstand, Ms. Assante. I don't mean the rehearsal."

Sheila reels as though the Russian designer had struck a blow across her face. "W-What?"

Viktor taps his lips, still finely curved. "Not only have you treated my staff and business associates with disrespect, but these 'worthless shoes' were also personally created and shipped over by a dear friend of mine."

Blinking, Yuri glances down at the stilettos on the floor. The words "PC" are elegantly scratched across the soles – _Popovich Creations_. That explains the inordinate amount of bling on the shoes, embellished to the brim with rhinestones and crystals.

"So you see," blue-green eyes flash, "I'm afraid I can't have you representing Lyublyu, much less my best works."

The model reddens in fury. "You can't fire me! I'm – "

"A psycho bitch from hell?" Michele chimes in.

At the giggles from the other models, Sheila snatches her purse from the dressing table. "You won't find anyone better than _me_ for your dumb show," she weeps, "I was the best of the lot, and you know it!"

"Oh, wait," Emil tosses Michele a harried look, then scurries after the model as she storms out, "Please change out and return the lingerie to us!"

There's a moment of silence, before conversations gradually start up again, the other models quickly gathering in small groups, whispering in hushed voices.

"And Sara calls _me_ a drama queen," Michele mutters.

"Bitch deserved it," Yuri points out.

"I don't disagree." Yuuri clutches the clipboard to his chest, teeth working anxiously at his bottom lip. "But she _was_ our lead model; we planned to have her end the show for us."

"We have our contacts," Viktor suggests, resting a hand on Yuuri's back.

"The show is next week… all the top models would be booked by now."

Michele shrugs. "So we just settle for a lesser known one then. The L Design models are pretty unknown, right?"

"It's different because the Lyublyu half will show off Viktor's best pieces," Yuuri says fiercely. "Leo wants L Designs to be showcased by the everyday woman for everyday women, but Lyublyu lingerie needs a model that women look up to – someone they want to _be_."

When Viktor looks down at Yuuri with the besotted expression of an aged Golden Retriever gazing upon its beloved owner, Yuri slips away before he barfs all over the gallery floor.

Ducking behind a pillar, he tugs out his cellphone and hits a number on his speed dial.

One ring, two – and Yura breathes in relief when he hears the telltale _click_.

" _Yura~ What a nice surprise!_ "

"Not so nice when you hear what I've got to say," Yura snorts, even as his chest warms at the genuine delight radiating through the other line. "What's your schedule like next Saturday?"

* * *

At their lunch meeting, Yuri relates the entire incident to Otabek with relish, waving his chopsticks in the air. They've settled on Chinese this time, so Otabek's cluttered desk now has little take-out boxes sitting on the top of each paper pile. (It's a wonder how that desk just never seems to clear up, but Yuri has never bothered to ask.)

"Ding-dong, the witch is dead," Otabek quips to Yuri's approving snigger, popping kung pao chicken in his mouth.

"You're the editor of a popular fashion magazine," Yuri leans forward, grinning. "Couldn't you spread the bad word, you know, put her off gigs?"

Otabek chews slowly. "I don't gossip." He swallows, smirking, "But I know an editor who does."

"I _knew_ there's a reason we're friends," Yuri crows, stretching for a take-out box.

For a second, Otabek's expression turns pensive. "Friends, hm?"

A piece of broccoli hovers near Yuri's open mouth, chopsticks pausing in motion. "What?"

"Nothing," Otabek shrugs.

Rolling his eyes, Yuri stuffs the broccoli in. "We have ten minutes left to our lunch," he growls, crunching into the vegetable. " _What_?"

The editor rests his chin on his hands, the exact same gesture he performed when they first met, in this exact same office – his interrogation pose. " _Are_ we friends?"

"Uh, yes," says Yuri, confused. "Are you telling me we're not?"

"On the contrary," Otabek quirks an eyebrow, "I'm asking if that's all we are."

"What are you – "

Oh.

 _Oh_.

Yuri's eyes dart down to his lap, blushing furiously.

He likes Otabek. He definitely enjoys spending time with him.

But is it enough for a relationship – all that full-blown, lovey-dovey bullshit with the disgusting pet names and the gentle touches and those _looks_ , like they couldn't bear to be apart for more than one minute, like they'd crumble and fall apart without the other?

Did he want that with Otabek?

The editor's overly serious, obstinate as a mule, and annoyingly, always right. He doesn't let Yuri get away with shit, but he does it in a way that makes Yuri feel _cared for_ , not patronized, and even Yuri has to admit that's a pretty impressive feat.

Also, he's hot, _and_ he owns a motorcycle, which is really fucking cool – like what fashion editor owns a _motorcycle_ – except the strait-laced bastard won't let Yuri drive it without a license.

And that same hot, motorcycle-owning bastard is now watching him with a piercing gaze, waiting for some kind of a response.

Where the hell is Mila when he needs her?

"You don't have to give an answer right this moment," Otabek assures then, and he sounds so oddly affectionate and _un-Otabek_ that every doubt in Yuri's mind crashes and burns, and Yuri hears himself speaking before he can register what he's about to say.

"I'm game if you are."

A beat, before the editor's stoic features reveal the glimpse of a smile. "I am."

"Oh, well." Yuri swallows, willing away the stupid flush that refuses to leave his cheeks. He forces his gaze back up to meet Otabek's eyes. "Problem solved then."

Dark eyes soften. "Yes, problem solved."

And they go on with their lunch with Yuri's heart in his ears, thrumming in silent elation.

* * *

On the day of the showcase, hours before opening, Yuri walks in just in time to witness Michele having some sort of apoplectic fit in the dressing area.

"Tell her to get herself in even if I had to drag her _sorry carcass_ in myself!" shrieks the Italian stage director. Models give him a wide berth as they pass, throwing concerned looks.

"She has chicken pox," Emil explains in a calming voice. "Doctor has quarantined her for quite some time."

"Who the hell gets chicken pox at this bloody age!?"

"It happens, Michele."

Yuri snickers, and Michele whirls on him. "We don't even know if your surprise guest is coming or not."

"She said she'll do her best," Yuri scowls in reply.

"And the second one's another Lyublyu model too," Yuuri says, looking like a loved one had dropped dead in front of him. "Can't we rearrange the cues with the remaining models?"

"Now?" Michele's eyes bulge, veins popping disturbingly. "You expect me to reorganize the cues with _hours_ left to the show? Without fittings? Without _practice_?"

"Breathe, boss," Emil murmurs, pulling up a chair and tugging Michele down to the seat. "Remember who you're doing this for."

"Sweet Sara, give me strength…"

"There you go." Gently, the assistant rubs Michele's back in soothing circles. "Maybe if we put our heads together, we can come up with someone." He smiles at Yuuri, extending an open palm. "May I?"

Nodding, Yuuri hands him the clipboard.

"Assuming Yuri's guest does arrive, we just need to replace the second model." Emil flips through the model profiles. "You know, in theater, we don't put much stock on gender; we've had men playing female roles, and women playing male roles."

As the idea sinks in, Yuri's face twists into a horrified expression. "You don't mean…"

"We don't have options, do we?" Michele grumbles. "So shut up and listen to Emil."

Emil beams with unconcealed pride. "Do we know anyone here who's about 5'7, 5'8? Preferably someone with a build who can pull off frills and lace."

There's a pause.

Then, as one, all heads turn to Yuuri, who stares back at them with wide, wide eyes.

" _Wow_ ," says Viktor brightly, stepping into the conversation at _just the right timing_ , (the crafty asshole), "A whole new market just opened for us."

"Are we getting Yuuri to model?" Leo grins broadly, just a step behind Viktor.

"How exciting," Guang Hong shares Leo's mischievous grin.

"Y-You can't be serious," Yuuri stammers, eyes darting from one person to the next, pleading wordlessly. "None of the guests are coming for a man in lingerie…"

"And they shall soon see what they've been missing!" Viktor practically _sparkles_ as he wraps an arm round Yuuri's waist and begins herding the protesting man to a corner. "I have _just_ the design for you."

"Don't we have wigs stored up from the last play?" Emil turns to Michele. "Mind if I swing by and grab a few?"

Michele nods, "I'll come with you."

"Guang Hong and I will do a final check on our pieces," Leo announces as he and the smaller man stride off towards the clothes rack.

Left to his own devices, Yuri decides to reach for the last sane person in his life.

" _Hello, Altin speaking_ – "

"They're putting Yuuri in lingerie," Yuri blurts in a rush.

"… _Yura?_ "

"They're all acting like it's the most normal thing in the world, but the crazies are putting _Yuuri_ in _lingerie_. He's going to be _walking_ the runway!"

There's noise – some sort of unintelligible gibbering in the background – and then a very loud thump.

"What the hell was that?" Yuri asks, frowning.

" _A number of my staff_ , _along with my assistant swooning out of his chair_ ," Otabek says, voice tinged with amusement. " _I have you on speakerphone._ "

So far, this whole relationship business hasn't been as great as people make it out to be.

* * *

"Well that's…" Michele flushes, eyes flicking away. "That's not half bad."

Emil chuckles. "Not half bad? I don't think he even needs a wig."

"He could totally pass for a woman," Leo adds.

"Like an Asian Twiggy," Guang Hong agrees, cheeks flushed with pleasure.

Viktor clasps his hands together under his chin, hearts in his eyes. "He passes for a _divine being_ and I am _unworthy_."

"You're all raving mad," Yuuri mutters.

The Japanese man is tugging consciously at a black crop top vest, as if the tiny thing could _possibly_ cover the long expanse of bare skin that reaches down, down, _endlessly_ down to a pair of black silk panties. Plunging low and spread wide open, the vest exposes tantalizing lines of a little balconette brassiere – blue, with swirling designs reminiscent of glowing stellar dust in the galaxy – its skinny strips peeking out from the sides, caressing a lean set of shoulders. And, almost as a naughty afterthought, stretching just inches above the panties, lies the translucent band of a skin-colored garter belt dotted with chrysanthemum patterns, and holding up a pair of silky black tights.

It's not the design the absent model had worn for rehearsal, and it's definitely not an older design, which can only mean that it's a new, one-of-a-kind Nikiforov creation.

Yuri can't tell what's worse: the fact that Viktor had designed the lingerie quite literally with Yuuri in mind and _carried it around with him_ , or that the man in question looks _disturbingly_ good in the damn things, especially with a fittingly provocative design that accentuates sharp collarbones and velvety, round thighs – hard and soft all at once.

And Yuri wants nothing more than to gouge his fucking _brain_ out for even entertaining such a thought.

(He doesn't even want to get into how seasoned Yuuri is on heels; the other man had mumbled something about having an older sister who always wanted someone to break in her new shoes.)

"Yura," Viktor chirps, grasping Yuuri by the shoulders and spinning the flustered man round to face Yuri, "You haven't shared your opinion!"

"I second the wimp," Yuri scowls darkly. "You're all mad."

"Well _I_ think he'd look even more fabulous with a touch of make-up," says a familiar voice near the entrance.

Loud gasps fill the dressing area, several of the models squealing in excitement.

Dropping her bags to the floor, International top model Mila Babicheva pulls off her shades, grinning. "Sorry I'm late, boys." She winks at Yuri, "Took me ages to convince my agent that this showcase is far more important than some silly Dolce and Gabanna fashion show in Milan."

The theater directors are politely puzzled – or, Emil is; the Italian just looks constipated as usual – but Leo and Guang Hong are clearly star struck, clutching at each other, trembling with joy, while Yuuri looks so amazed that he seems to have momentarily forgotten his current state of undress.

And then, Viktor – _Viktor Nikiforov_ – shoots Yuri an approving smile, and suddenly, despite all the years of brotherly torment, despite months of enduring his brother's whimsical decisions at Lyublyu, despite an _eternity_ of looking up to the biggest idiot he's ever known – Yuri feels like he could handle the _world_.

* * *

"Ooh, you look just _perfect_ in that shade of lipstick. Now pout for me, just a little… and now tilt your head to the side – not so much! That's it! Aaaand hooold… _Excellent_!"

"Um, I'd rather not have any of that on instagram – "

"Oh no, no, I'm just sending these to Seung-gil. Remind him that he's not the only pretty Asian male in these parts."

"Oh. I'm not a model, though."

"You are today! Not that it matters to Seung-gil anyway; competitive to a fault, that one."

"Mila, are those photographs of Yuuri? Send them to me."

"Hmm, give me a good offer and I'll print you physical copies."

"$300 for that full-body shot in two life-size cutouts and one body pillow."

" _Viktor_."

Ramming earphones in, Yuri turns away from the three psychos seated at the next dressing table; Mila cackling like a drunken witch, and Yuuri spluttering at Viktor, who's nodding intermittently, attention clearly more drawn to the other man's very exposed skin.

And his brother expects Yuuri to know about his feelings of _love_?

Yuri takes everything back about being able to handle the world.

He can barely handle one Viktor Nikiforov.

* * *

Notes:

 _Glamor modeling:_ Some people call it "an expression of sexuality in the form of a photograph"; others call it "erotic photography". I'm sure it's a perfectly wonderful and viable modeling career, but a snobby wannabe editorial/runway model would probably hate the idea - hence Yuri's insult.

 _Twiggy:_ Top British model in the 1960s; known for her short, boyish cut, and skinny, small-breasted figure.

Feel free to squeal with me on tumblr: dreaming-fireflies. tumblr. com (remove the spaces).

PS: This is not the end of Yuuri in lingerie. Because we have yet to see it in Viktor's POV...

Final chapter:

Viktor sees people in color.

His half-brother is a fiery shade of vermilion, like molten lava, simmering and bubbling on the surface. Yakov is a steady slate grey, dull but dependable, always responsive despite his many complaints. And then there's Leo and Guang Hong – both shades of soft, warm pastels, a perfectly sweet combination; the kind of colors you'd find on the walls of a baby room.

At some point – he can't recall when – he began to lose his color sense. People's auras, once luminous with hues, had washed out into a blank whiteness, and with it, his joy in creating pieces that would complement those colors, those beautifully tinted silhouettes.

And then, Yuuri Katsuki walked into his life.


	12. My darling, you are my poetry

_**Author's Notes:** AND WE ARE DONE. For all of you who've stayed throughout this journey, thank you so, so much from the bottom of my heart. I've loved and appreciated every comment, kudos, and subscription, and I hoped you've enjoyed reading this story as much as I have writing it. I have a few other fics that I'm still working on, so please do check those out if you're so inclined. _

_Without further ado, here's Lessons in Love, the final chapter. :3_

* * *

Viktor sees people in color.

His half-brother is a fiery shade of vermilion, like molten lava, simmering and bubbling on the surface. Yakov is a steady slate grey, dull but dependable, always responsive despite his many complaints. And then there's Leo and Guang Hong – both shades of soft, warm pastels, a perfectly sweet combination; the kind of colors you'd find on the walls of a baby room.

At some point – he can't recall when – he began to lose his color sense. People's auras, once luminous with hues, had washed out into a blank whiteness, and with it, his joy in creating pieces that would complement those colors, those beautifully tinted silhouettes.

And then, Yuuri Katsuki walked into his life.

There wasn't much to Yuuri when he first entered the office. He had a faint hue of sorts, vague and blur, but certainly not enough for Viktor to pay much heed.

It's when the shy little bunny revealed its teeth that Viktor saw a burst of colors: bright spots, dancing like rays of sunlight reflecting off sparkling waters. Enthusiasm and inspiration flooded back so fast, so hard, that Viktor felt giddy from the sudden rush.

So he took Yuuri in under the guise of teaching him the ropes of business and fashion. If Yuuri learned fast, all the better, but it mattered far more for Yuuri to be present, for Viktor to keep seeing those colors, and to _create_.

And create he did, sketches upon sketches of designs, brought on simply by watching Yuuri as he worked so earnestly, endearingly eager to prove his worth to Lyublyu. (It helped, of course, that Yuuri really was quite beautiful under that hideous interview suit.)

Enter Jean-Jacques Leroy.

Even with his loss of color sense, Viktor can never forget the deep hue of royal purple surrounding the cocky designer. That particular shade is too harsh, too extravagant – lacking the sophistication of Nikiforov designs.

Viktor was hardly surprised when Jean-Jacques turned up at the height of all the bankruptcy rumors, declaring his intent for collaboration. He's even less surprised to find out that Jean-Jacques had chosen to take advantage of Yuuri.

No, what threw Viktor off – far off the edge and into the abyss of no return – was Yuuri's very honest, very _drunk_ voice message left at four in the morning.

("I have _nooo_ idea what you're thinkin' in that pretty head of yours, but my _god_ you are so pretty, and I want to work for you forever and _ever_ , and _ever_ , and I really, _really_ hope you like me too, even though I don't know what the hell I'm doin' half the time – and did I mention _how much_ I like your panties – I mean, not the ones you're wearing, 'cause I haven't seen the ones you're wearin', but the stuff in the displays. The designs, they're like, um, like little pieces of _art_ , 'cept it's art people wear on their ass – and, and y'know, I've never worn lingerie before, but I'd do anything to wear _your_ pretty art on my butt – "

And so it went, for a good thirty minutes, cut off and broken into several messages due to the sheer length.

Viktor had listened to the rambling message, heart pounding like a drum in his ears, wide-awake and practically floating off his bed.

No one spoke to him like that, not quite so sincerely. He's had critics and designers gushing praise over his designs, over his looks, but it's never genuine was it? Every single one of them, colored in dark mixes of envy and desire – they all wanted something out of him. Only Christophe is ever genuine with his compliments, but not even the erotic critic could turn a phrase like "wear your pretty art on my butt" into the sweetest, _sexiest_ line Viktor had ever heard.

By the time Yuuri finally got to the point of his call, Viktor was willing to let the other man sign a deal with Satan himself if he so wished.)

Then Yuuri's colors shifted.

They were still radiant – long after the disastrous collaboration started, even as Yuuri wept in his arms over his fatal business error with Jean-Jacques. But it's when the Japanese took on the trunk show and rose like a phoenix that his colors _moved_ , swirling and gathering together, like an explosion of shimmering stardust, and Viktor was utterly mesmerized.

He might have been content watching Yuuri from a distance, keeping that brilliance safe from corruption, if it weren't for a certain meddling best friend.

And it's thanks to Phichit that Viktor had a chance to witness Yuuri, his meek little bunny, stand up to Jean-Jacques. No one could have shone brighter than Yuuri that night – the man was glimmering _gold_ , and Viktor wanted nothing more than to kiss him, soundly.

But it didn't feel right - not yet.

So Viktor refrained, channeling his adoration solely into his newest creation, a surprise that he meant to reveal at the end of the trunk show, at the after party.

The whole process filled him with immense joy: from selecting the fabric for the pieces, right down to the fine threads he would sew in for the flower patterns. And the cutting, oh, the cutting of the shapes, mapping them onto the fine lines of that slender body in his mind's eye - it was as pleasurable as it was _torturous._

But it seemed fate had a different plan for his design, and Viktor had absolutely no complaints.

How could he, when he, and the rest of the world, have been given the perfect opportunity to see Yuuri wear _his_ art on that fine, round ass?

("You know I was drunk right," said Yuuri, peeking at the lingerie through his fingers. " _Super_ drunk."

Viktor widened his eyes as large as they could go. "So you _don't_ like my pieces?"

"I do!" Yuuri panicked, "I meant everything I said about your designs – "

"Then it's settled," Viktor said cheerily, yanking Yuuri's shirt over the other's head before he was unceremoniously booted out of the changing room.)

The final product is everything and _more_ than Viktor has ever fantasized.

Yuuri isn't toned, far from it – given how he practically inhales fried meat on their dates – but the natural curves, the softness, contrasting with that God-given frame is an incredible match with Viktor's design, the lines of his work made specifically to accentuate those very features.

And the colors, the _colors_ : gold and blue and black rolling against each other, standing out entrancingly amidst the fainter shades of others around him.

Even now, watching Yuuri's nose crinkle in that adorable expression of concentration, listening to Emil's instructions on his cues, Viktor's hands itch to hold the smaller man and take everything he has to offer - and he has _so much_ to offer - starting with those soft, squishy thighs –

"You're in it deep, aren't you?"

Viktor takes several seconds to rip his eyes away from Yuuri. "What was that?"

Mila grins. "To think Yakov's most favored and enigmatic student has fallen for a member of his staff. What will the professor say?"

"Many things, I'd imagine," Viktor chuckles. "Though it's by Professor Yakov's advice that I met Yuuri in the first place, so I suppose a gift basket is due."

"Doubt he'd appreciate the reasoning behind it," Mila sniggers. "Yura tells me you haven't confessed your love yet."

"Not yet." Viktor shrugs, turning back to Yuuri, lips curving as the Japanese man attempts an awkward pose at Emil's request. "But I have been dropping hints."

"Sure, if you call designing an entire lingerie set customized to his specific measurements a _hint_." Mila clicks her tongue. She follows Viktor's gaze and lets out a chortle. "What on earth do they think they're doing?"

Yuuri's trying his best to imitate Emil, who has his hip cocked to one side, lower lip sticking out in a pout.

Viktor laughs. Even at his most uncomfortable, Yuuri still glows like a lighthouse in a storm. "Striking sexy poses for the runway, I'm assuming."

"Hmm," says Mila, glossy lips curling into a wicked smirk. "I might have the perfect idea."

"Mila," Viktor cautions, but the model has already flounced over to Yuuri's side, tugging the startled man away.

Ah, well. What's the worst Mila can do?

* * *

The guest list is a ragtag fusion of star-studded fashion editors, designers, models, and members of the public. Otabek is present, naturally, with his young assistant and Christophe in tow, as are Jean-Jacques and his fiancée. Michele's sister, Sara, is also in attendance, restless and seated next to Yuuri's guests in the second row: Phichit, and an ardent fan of Lyublyu by the name of Yuuko.

The guest that causes the biggest stir in the crowd – and loud shrieking from Sara, much to Michele's chagrin – is the sudden appearance of Lee Seung-gil, who claims that he's perfectly happy to stand as long as he can catch a glimpse of the model Mila told him about. Despite Michele's objections, Emil swiftly has the staff find a chair for the top model in the front row.

"Told you he's hyper competitive," Mila whispers to a flustered Yuuri.

"I'm not a model," Yuuri insists for the hundredth time.

Pressing a hand on Yuuri's back, Viktor leans down to brush his lips against Yuuri's ear. "Regardless, your beauty is unparalleled."

Instantly, the skin beneath his touch heats up, and ah – that endearing flush spreads much further he thought. Viktor feels his own body reacting down south; hastily, he removes his hand as though burned.

Beyond torturous.

"I, um, hope they'll like Leo's and your designs," Yuuri stammers, tugging at his crop top vest. "That's all we want, right?"

No, that's most certainly not all Viktor wants, but how _sweet_ can a person be?

"Thank you, Yuuri." Reluctantly, Viktor pulls away, ignoring the broad grin Mila flashes at him. "All the best," he raises his voice, addressing the other models. "I will join you on stage with Leo at the end."

He gives Emil a nod on his way to his seat, and the assistant strides quickly to the stage opening, muttering into his headset.

"We're set to begin."

* * *

During the L Designs segment, Viktor notes that Guang Hong appears more nervous than Leo. The petite Chinese shifts about in his seat, chewing frantically at his nails, eyes darting to the various editors in the opposite row across the runway. It's only after Leo takes Guang Hong's hand in his, and rests it, trapped on his knee, that the smaller man calms, taking in deep breaths.

Watching their pastel auras blend in gentle harmony, Viktor wonders how his colors look with Yuuri's.

"No turning back," Yuri sighs beside him then, and the music switches to a fast-paced, electronic beat, strobe lights dimming.

When the spotlight returns with a flash of white light, it's Yuuri, except it's _not Yuuri_ – not in his strut, or the smirk on his face, or the way his eyes are _burning_ into Viktor's as he makes his way down the runway, working those heels like he's walked in them all his life.

Someone's catcalling – someone's definitely screaming – but Viktor can't hear beyond the rush of blood to his head (and some other unmentionable parts), especially not when Yuuri stops at the end of the runway, lifts his hand, and blows a kiss at him.

 _Right at_ _him_.

"Damn," Yuri chokes, as Yuuri spins round, slapping a high five with Mila on his way backstage. "Who the hell is he and what happened to the wimp?"

Viktor opens his mouth, but he can't bring himself to speak. Doesn't trust himself to speak.

Hell, he's not even sure he can move.

His mind, his _treacherous_ mind, is replaying the short scene in loops: he can no longer unsee those sultry, brown eyes, lit with an unfamiliar fire, or the parted, pink lips, just begging for the breath to be stolen from them, taken till they gasp for air, for _release_ –

"Uh, boss," Leo's bemused voice breaks through the fog of arousal, "I think we're due on stage."

"In a minute," Viktor croaks, desperately wishing he had chosen a looser style for his pants.

Beside him, Yuri drops his head in his hands.

* * *

"Cheers for a fabulous showcase!"

In unison, glasses clink in the air, staff and models beaming with elation.

The show is a success, if the frenzy towards the end was any indication: fashion editors had dispatched their photographers out to nab as many pictures as they could of Mila and Seung-gil, determined to feature the international fashion stars in their magazines. Several others, including Otabek, had sent their writers to catch Yuuri for an exclusive interview.

To Leo and Guang Hong's relief, every one of them had nothing but praise for the new L Designs, though Viktor suspects it's a lovely by-product of the excitement over the models' appearances.

Such is business.

"Yuuri, must you change out so quickly," Christophe exhales sorrowfully.

Silently, Viktor agrees, while Yuuri shakes his head. "It's drafty," he blushes, folding his arms across his belly as though it's still exposed.

"I, I, I think you were _magnificent_ ," Kenjiro splutters.

"Not bad for a first walk," Otabek agrees stoically.

"Yeah, congratulations," Yuri deadpans, "You managed to give my brother the hardest boner of his life."

Brown eyes blink, flickering over to Viktor. "I did?"

Damn it, Yura.

Viktor inhales. "I – "

"Yuuri, you sure know how to surprise a guy." Phichit leaps onto Yuuri's back, laughing. "Never thought I'd see _you_ on stage!"

A sweet-looking brunette follows after, eyes bright and luminous with tears. "Yuuri-kun, that was amazing! Do you get to keep the pieces? Tell me you get to keep the pieces!"

"Phichit, Yuu-chan," Yuuri flails, struggling to detach Phichit off him, "C-Calm down!"

Cracking a small smile, Viktor subtly takes his leave and heads for the drinks table; Yuuri deserves to bask with his friends, after his hard work. He has no doubt Yuuri would have preferred his next words to be said in private anyway.

"Hey."

There's a vague glimpse of deep purple, and Viktor turns to face Jean-Jacques, sporting his signature fedora hat.

"Mr. Leroy," Viktor says, inclining his head.

"Please, no need for formalities." Jean-Jacques barks out an awkward laugh. "I, uh… just wanted to say, I liked the show."

Viktor arches an eyebrow. "Just the show?"

"And the products, of course," the designer adds quickly. "In fact, Isabella's quite obsessed with one of the L Design sets. She hopes to place an order before we leave."

"Ah." Viktor smiles; Leo will be pleased. "See that you do then."

"Of course." There's a flash of emotion across Jean-Jacques's face that looks almost like relief, before it vanishes as swiftly as it appeared. The designer tips his hat in a jaunty show of confidence. "Give my regards to Yuuri," he winks, before sauntering off in search for his fiancée in the crowds.

Just as Viktor thinks he can take a quick breather, Mila sweeps in to take the designer's spot, a flute of champagne in hand. "I'm surprised to see you at the drinks table without Yuuri," she remarks, cheeks already glowing with an alcoholic flush. "Thought you would've brought him home after that stunt."

"Yura thinks you gave him drugs," Viktor points out, picking up a glass of champagne.

Mila cackles. "All I did was advise him to picture himself as a woman trying her hardest to seduce the man of her dreams." She tips her head, downing her drink with gusto. "Never thought it'd work _that_ well."

If that's Yuuri's attempt at an imagined seduction, Viktor isn't sure he'll last long if the other man ever puts his mind into flirting with Viktor for real.

Suddenly, there's a scuffle, and all attention is drawn to the shouting at the next table.

"Mickey, let me talk to him! I've been dying to meet him for ages!"

"No, I'm not letting this, this, _flower boy_ trick you into his hotel bed!"

"Michele, breathe…"

"I don't know any of you idiots," Seung-gil says, looking extremely cross.

"And it's Mila to the rescue again," the model giggles, slipping her flute glass on the table and swiping a second glass in one motion. "Tell Yura to come see me before my flight tomorrow." Giving Viktor a pat on the shoulder, she wanders over to where Michele is now hollering at Seung-gil, restrained by Emil and drowning out his sister's frantic apologies to the top model.

"Ah, Viktor," proclaims a fashion editor, bearing down like a vulture.

Viktor takes a gulp of red wine, before giving his most winsome smile.

Once this is all over, Lyublyu and L Designs's publicity secured, he will seek out Yuuri later for a more private celebration.

* * *

It's Yuuri who finds him first.

How fitting, thinks Viktor, chest warm with affection, as the Japanese man settles down comfortably by his side on the bench. All this started with Yuuri finding him first, after all.

"What are you doing outside?" Yuuri asks. His cheeks are tinted a lovely shade of rosy pink from a few drinks.

Viktor wants to reach out and feel the warmth beneath his palm, but he doesn't.

Not yet.

"Just wanted some fresh air." He looks up at the night sky. The stars are few tonight, obscured by dark clouds. Pity; it would've made for a perfect confession scene otherwise. "You've done well, Yuuri."

"Do you really think so?" Yuuri shifts beside him, no doubt embarrassed by the compliment. "Chris and a couple other critics wanted to know the name of your latest design, by the way. If you have one."

"Is that why you came looking for me?"

"Yes and no," Yuuri laughs sheepishly, "I also just wanted to see you."

Ah, too cute.

"Pragma," says Viktor, eyes flicking to Yuuri.

The other man meets his gaze, curiosity reflected on his face. "Pragma?"

"The name of the design. Pragmatic love. A love that is mature and everlasting; formed through deep understanding, patience, and tolerance."

"Oh," Yuuri murmurs. "That's… beautiful."

"It's the first thing that came to mind when I starting designing it for you."

Instantly, a flush sweeps down the slender neck, and Viktor fights against recalling the enticing heat spreading across Yuuri's bare back. "I can't believe you took my voice message seriously…"

"I take everything about you seriously," Viktor says softly.

For a while, there's silence, punctured only by the sound of an occasional passing car.

When it doesn't seem like Yuuri's going to say anything, Viktor starts, "Yuuri, I – "

"I can do better," Yuuri cuts in abruptly.

"What," says Viktor, bewildered.

"I can do better," Yuuri repeats. Slamming his hands on the bench, he turns his entire body to face Viktor, eyes ablaze with a fire that isn't too different from his turn on the runway.

"I've learned so much from you and everyone at Lyublyu about fashion, and business, and – " he swallows, hesitating, then plunges on, " – and love, and I think I can grow more from here, lots more, so…"

His jaw clenches, chin lifting, "I hope you'll stay with me and keep giving me lessons, always."

Viktor is still, staring at Yuuri. Not only has Yuuri beaten him to the punch, but – "That sounds like a proposal," he breathes.

"D-Does it?" Yuuri looks flustered. "That wasn't my exact intention – "

"I accept," says Viktor. His heart is beating so fast that it's getting harder to breathe. "I accept," he says again, lifting a hand to stroke Yuuri's jaw, delighting in the other man's smile.

"I heard you the first time," Yuuri says shyly.

God, he's adorable, _so_ adorable.

Giving into impulse, Viktor leans in and presses his lips on the corner of Yuuri's. When he feels Yuuri stiffen, he pulls back slightly, cupping the other man's cheek. "Is this okay?" Viktor murmurs, breathing as he watches long eyelashes lower over deep brown eyes. (Honestly, he doesn't know what he's going to do if Yuuri gives any answer other than yes.) "Can I…?"

Yuuri flushes, skin humming with heat. "I... I don't know how, I've never..."

"You want lessons, don't you?" Viktor whispers, leaning in just a fraction closer. "Let me show you."

The pause feels like centuries.

And then, with eyes smoldering like the embers of a warm fireplace, Yuuri nods once.

It's all the confirmation Viktor needs to kiss Yuuri, tipping his head to deepen it, swallowing the quiet gasp. He feels hands sliding up, tangling in his hair, and he stifles a groan; he's had far too many fantasies of those hands doing just that, with Yuuri's knees against his head, spread open just for him.

Everything about Yuuri is intoxicating. His smell, his taste, even the way his tongue so tentatively darts out to lick at Viktor's bottom lip - god he's such a fast learner. If Yuuri's performance on stage is any indication, the man clearly has many hidden talents to uncover, and Viktor can't wait to peel back every layer, the mere thought driving shivers down his spine.

Maybe Eros might have been a more accurate title for his creation.

"Yuuri, you out here? Party's not the same without y—"

Viktor barely has time to register the new arrival, before he's shoved off the bench, landing painfully on his behind.

"Phichit," says Yuuri, eyes wide, still frozen in the act of pushing Viktor away.

The costume designer takes in the scene with one glance, a dangerous sparkle in his eyes, before he's whirling round to run back inside.

Yuuri yelps, " _Don't_ – "

"Everyone," Phichit announces brightly, flinging the gallery doors open, "My best friend is officially dating Viktor Nikiforov!"

"About fucking time!" Yuri's voice can be heard over the immediate commotion.

"Let's run before they corner us." Yuuri snatches at Viktor's hand and drags him to his feet, yanking him into a hard sprint down the street.

Hearing the shouts behind them, Viktor laughs heartily, soaking in the golden glow around Yuuri as they make their escape, hand-in-hand.

Lesson #12: Always keep your muse by your side, and your well of inspiration will never run dry.

* * *

Notes

Epilogue: And then they had sex like wild bunnies.

In all seriousness, I initially had a bigger role for Yuuko to play, but things sort of careened off a different path, and the poor girl was left on the wayside. xD; A-At the very least, she got nice front-row seats at a Lyublyu showcase?

I hope you all had fun, and again, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING. m(_ _)m

Feel free to squeal with me on tumblr: dreaming-fireflies. tumblr. com (remove the spaces). ^^


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